As I wander along this lonely road
a wintry chill invades my coat.
I need this time to mediate
on the consequences of my vote.

As I gave thought of Right and Left
my footfall struck a rusty can.
I stopped and stooped to pick it up
and contemplated the object in my hand.

The can was a heavily dented can
that had been kicked down this road so long
It seemed its' second nature now
to absorb our kicks like nothing's wrong.

It once was shiny bright and new;
a wondrous work of human hand.
Now a rusty dented thing-
Its sad fate now I understand.

"The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity. " said Yeats.
They are a venial, grasping group of thieves
We put in charge to decide our fates.

In my short time the world has changed
in ways we scarcely understand.
We have failed to act to avoid destruction.
This road is strewn with dented cans.