The artificial disease
We all have nothing to believe
We all have nothing
To hold on to
Life's wick burning
Does it give light?
Does it give heat?
Do we live in darkness
Ignorant questions
Answers of no authority
Until we find a cure
For death
There will always be
A need for the spirit
The artificial disease
That condemns.
We have no place
And are alone here
With a multitude of
Others
Yearning to be free
To wash up on the shores
Not touched be the sea
Of effluence and rotting food
The superficial disease
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