With Wolves as Shepherds

Ill nevermore, the dead or dying wastelands,
Unsure because of the constant winds.

All too different, all too alike the religions.
All too pointless, all too meaningful the tensions.

The civil ferocity of the self-proclaimed diplomacy,
Beats to a pulp, the face of democracy.

Ill nevermore, the undead carcass of logic crawling back to the folded arms of reason,
To each our own, the sugar coated denial of each and every season.

God revive this, that, these morals once found relevant,
To a history now seen a fairytale, ever halting development.

They seek to deeply reroute the roots of history, shooting point blank, the very sources of hope.
Where behind the scenes, do corruption and idiocy elope.

The cattle, take little notice, without a word.
That wolves have taken the form of shepherds

Philosophy hangs from a rope, carved from hair and thread.
Ill nevermore, we the walking undead.