The Wandering Fool

I, just a wandering fool, who knows not what to say or what to do... In the travels, I see the world threw the lost sages eyes. The old man nears death, but what did he know? He knew his land, his country and the flag, but what did he earn in the end? The young girl cries, but what does she feel? The hurt and the pain of a broken home, the scars she hides with all her might, but no, she hides it away, threw the shining glare of the next needle that passes her way, oh sad, what did she gain? The politician lies, but what does he care? He gets paid either way, and the media will always pass away. What did he do sitting in his big chair? Nothing but fluff and pomp, and he fades to black for what did he really change?

The mother crying herself to sleep, the father at the bar till late, the son beating down a neighbor in a dark street, for we all but pawns to fate. Who must live, who must die, the politician wonders? Not him, so he loses interest. The sweetest girl now back on the corner, going down for her fix. Why, oh why? The poor old man, lost in thoughts, was it worth the fight? He served his country well, and what did he gain? Just a metal on a rag. He cries again, where did he best years go?

Time was not kind, as the young girl turns older. Another day, another man, another high, it never ends. A victim of the system, or a product, we wonder? The old man is long gone, lost to time. How alive was he to begin with, the silent voice cries? His soul died in the fields of My Lai years ago. The ghosts haunted him, and he drank it away. Now he’s lost forever. The politician meets his friends, drinks his scotch at his fine house, but the things he did, the way he got here, was it right? He also has his ghosts, and time never forgets. They say they found him dead in his chair, holding a newspaper from long ago. "Johnson wins, runner up appealing vote dies in freak car crash." It is not new, the cycle runs on. Fate calls for us all, the voices we hear. 

I, just a wandering fool, who knows not what to say or what to do... But, one last voice calls threw the darkness. It whispers in your ear, dear friend, begging the question you fear. Is it I who is the fool, or you, my friend? Yes, my friend, the voice calls to you, and in regret you cry. That girl was you, could you not have helped her from the floor when her father hit her, or did you let her go? And, that old man, he calls for you to. He drank himself away, and you didn't care at all? Just a sad old veteran, is his pain not yours as well? A nation of those lost souls call for you. Oh, but what of the corrupt society the politician lived in, my friend? A solid business man, was his victory not yours as well. What’s the little man to do with it anyway, your ego temped... Is his blood not on your hands? Yes, my friend, is it I who is the fool, or you?