I have no fancy footing nor fortress on which I stand,
but I look upon this humble world, and think it rather grand.

I look to those cold and open pages,
the words from poets written over ages.
telling us from where to come and how we go there.
All that we have seen and done, taking us to nowhere.

They talk of war, and death galore.
Of how we paint this world, a subtle shade of red.
That all that we have ever done is dying and or dead.
but there is something they have forgotten, an idea of a road left rotten.

What of the beauty?
What of the dove?
what of all those ideas that make us love...

Are they not important too?
I leave this choice down to you.