Dismayed By These Redundant Times Poem by DM W

Ignorant of divine origins,
Yet familiar with spiritual hunger,
This blank generation stumbles on;
Making the same old mistakes;
Such as referring to the darkness as light;
Or sentimentally wishing upon dead stars:
That are as cold and as bleak as night.

We cling on to brightly painted bones,
That we assume will bring us luck.
We are truly lost. We can't seem to see
The verdant woods for the gnarled, black trees.
We may assume that we are civilised,
Yet our lives are plagued by superstitions.
Like our ancestors, we still live in fear.