We are so adept at it all,
So capable of the great many abilities we have abled,
So wonderfully determined,
So wondrously curious.
We chance against the odds,
Make light amid a dark that we know is abyssal,
Make great strides in endeavour,
Make more with less.
We’re not opposed to clamour,
Fighting in the name of a good that we feel in ourselves,
Fighting for the downtrodden,
Fighting against a wrong.
We care, in and of caring,
Should we feel compelled to better the heart,
Should the need thereof arise,
Should it matter.
But, we’ve grown comfortable;
Inconvenienced by a threat we don’t understand;
Tired by the breaking of a routine that we dare not interrupt;
Warring with any effort to save us, if not at least from ourselves.
We were never once more bright.
So close have we made each other to the world and we within it.
So near are we to fighting against the eternity of stars.
So warm are our dearest should they may.
But, so late have days made patience end draw nigh,
For we fools in isolation would rather convenience; die.