They are stacks of mud--
Splattered filth on the curb
slowly rotting away
like debris of our own path.
Trampled upon leaves
and roadkill rabbits
that pass by our eyes
like the birds of the sky;
Forgotten people of time
and tragedy's aftermath.

Yet these wise wise fools
are happier than I,
the higher and mightier
Begotteb of a son.
Whom dwells in depression
Chained to a society
that feeds off of misery
and regretful deceit;
The comfort and contentment
perceived as luxury and success

For I see them smile
almost a daily occurrence,
as though a new sunshine
is enough of a reason to live zealously.
For I have not unwithholdingly
smiled in countless years,
yet these pitiful souls
have the ability to surpass my own
and thrive in the freedom of their hearts
whilst I suffer in the mundane of wealth.