Walking around in the rain.
The veil is lifted.
Blindness ripped away

The colors wash through
Black, white, yellow and blue
There is no more any can do
To end all the hate
All this pain
All these tears

No one is different
The individual disappears
They are them
We are us

But we are better than them

They live their lives
We live ours
We have nothing in common
No, not one

Our goal is the top
We know we are there
Superior in every way
Destroy the others
They have no right to live
Because we are superior
That is the way it has always been

What would happen
If we were color blind

It would still continue
Never to stop
Stereotypes everywhere
Classification of the way they live
Under the microscope
Struggling to survive
History takes its course
And no one cares

Unstoppable force
Of hatred

A sense of utter loss within,
ignoring the world outside that of the mind,
Wandering in the paths of insanity
Blasting thoughts, and a rising, formless desire
to be lost in the darkness all around,
yet still sensing the borders
that are immersed in a sludge of sin
All goes on within the invisible world
hidden from any earthly eyes.
Unimaginable to all but one,
yet receiving glimpses of similarity
that strike the uniqueness back from reality.
Giving form to words,
images that could never be painted
but are forgotten instantaneously.
The vastness that might only be
the result of a chemical imbalance.
Such that these words become aimless,
mindless wanderings
devoid of any meaning to the universe.
It is but one fools perspective that
the discourse is one of wisdom,
that it is unique
And yet still, the self-importance clings
and the lines of discernment
become inevitably blurred.
The fabric is torn and marred,
trampled under the hooves of cattle
down below, where the dust is pounded
into miniature swirling clouds,
and the grass roots are torn up
to be left flapping helplessly
in the screaming winds of commotion.
There is a lack of conviction
in every word that is spoken
as if the bubble of thoughts
has become disconnected from the machinery
and floated into boundless space.
Once the fuel has flown,
the unworthy tongue sets in,
drawing from the toxic piles of sundry
that lie skewed asunder
destined to be burned,
though they still exist
to create thick curdling smoke
that chokes out any form of life
and causes the filth of hypocrisy
to flow forth in abundance.
Sinking into the mire,
the narrow way shrinks to the eye of a needle
And all hope seems lost.
This is deprecation.

Inspiration from a fellow writer
And a chance at contemplation on a peaceful Saturday afternoon
Have led to a quest for forgotten moments
And thoughts of pleasant abstractions.
A hint at appreciative visuals
Carries the thought to a fig tree
Growing majestically in its place in its earthen patch.
Words fail to describe the abundance of life that exists
As sparrows flit through branches heavily laden with fruit
While the wind gently rustles leaves shaped like green hands outstretched,
Casting gentle shadows on a silently bustling anthill.
A hummingbird zooms in to smell a fruit,
Squeaks twice, and exits with the soft thrum of its wings.
A lizard skitters through the jungle of grass and snaps up a mouthful of ants
Bringing chaos to the ant kingdom.
Yet tranquility is soon restored to the fig tree soaking in the solar rays,
And the tomato quietly ripening under a cloudless sky.
Under that same sky, countless battles rage
And boiling chaos tears at its leash.
All of creation groans with pain of labor
As the fallen dig deeper in their graves
And are consumed by beastly desires.
In a forest, countless leaves gently whisper their sorrows
As warm light dances through the shadows.
The surface of a pond, as smooth as glass
Is only momentarily broken by ripples of activity
While the beholder stares deeply into the reflection.
Below the surface, ghoulish beings lurk in the mire
While deeper still, the mud of hypocrisy churns wildly
As the unworthy tongues set in and will clash in unfathomable violence.
There is something desperately wrong
Yet churlish scoffers ignore the signs
Blinded in selfishness and greed.
Again and again they play games of chess
Where all the pieces are pawns
Replaced with fake queens
While the kings of value are forgotten
Set aside until they are shot to pieces.
Yet all this is hidden, beneath the surface of impeccable glass
As devilish turmoil roars beneath the skins of men.
There is but one hope for a life of meaning
In which true peace can be restored.