Millions of men
with what to offer?
Your frontal lobes have laid waste
with suspicions
dissent
and popular opinions

Shreds of truth
do exist
and even whole parts
obscure the the view
But fantasies dream
these inventions

All you men
who cry treason in your hearts
Yet none of you journey
thru the wilderness
with a handcart

Men who loathe
the hands that support them
because whispering subtleties
breeze thru their frontal lobes

Self-loathing
hath made thee
an enemy of good
who would proclaim good
as bad
and delighteth
in your own destruction

Oh that I could call you
by the name of a friend
But you wish to bargain with fate
placing my family as chips
on a consequential poker table
Bets are waged
and I don't like the odds

However you claim to wage no war
except for the unheard
And in so doing
you ignore my family