Untitled I

This was built to be a lonely road
One no one would ever walk upon.
There never were any lights
To shine on the clothes they don.

What a horrible conclusion
To another worn and scarred face
They will end their existence
There will never be a single trace.

We're told to be fair to minorities,
To tell them they are human,
Listen to their stories of lives,
They places from where they ran.

This road was never finished,
No lines were ever drawn,
Broken, left forever,
All traces of existence gone.

Minorities are priorities
But the coin has been flipped
Minorities become majorities,
More glasses have been tipped.

When a glass has nothing
There is no empty or full.
We're not optimistic or pessimists,
We're just mere horns of a bull.