Shroud

We Love To Bless
Yet We Live Overwhelmed With Stress
Our Real Issues Are Never Printed By The Press
So We Continue To Wade In A Murky Mess

We Hope To See The Sun Break Out
And When We Think It Will, A few Begin To Pout
Casting Into Us Sufficient Doubt
That They And Not We Should Be Stout.

We Run Around In A Maze
Like Blind Mice We See Through A Haze
Maybe Someday We Will Be Fed With Sufficient Maize
So We Begin To Develop A Piercing Gaze