In the beginning there was neither shape nor form nor light,
yet a path was forged and gods were made false or true wrong or right,
empires have risen and fallen,
doctrine and propaganda awash like pollen,
full of stories, sometimes stolen,

So ugly was our beginning
that our aftermath promises the same,
always at war albeit with different names,
the dream of peace deferred further to a future that is shady.
From a distance its a spectacle, though ugly,
constant quarrels like babies,
going back and forth skirting the issues,
'cause of the length of time we are now at harmony with our chaos, so occupied no longer stopping to count the our daily loss.
Given this rate I fear a return to the shapeless beginning in the shady aftermath.