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.