Are we not your shadow, following where you lead, yet trailing, held in place?

From the jungle, some once said, to be taught a lesson in religion, and white manners.

Since all conscience freed us, we stagnate, still manacled to predigest, unable to reverse the evolutional march of white time, or retrace the sanity of mother nature.

Eastern block broke free from scarlet towards red white and blue, but draped its self in purple, as blood meets sky beyond.

Should poison deepen once more, and earths last cough reveal wounds to deep to treat, shall we cry to late?

Or leave it to the master?