una poema

endless and dark for many millions who
are counting down the minutes for when they
begin to feel again, for nothing true
is in their sights, tenebrous is the way

such fleeting time spent dwelling on the thing
that trifling would be too deserving to
describe, poor heart, the in-genuine thing
hope through disappointment is my rue

inane, just words of mediocrity
these are the breaths of life which you survive?
your soul chokes on unknown disloyalty
this is not what it means to be alive

what can one offer to the deafening plea?
a truth and light, a promise to be free

ok. now i've "shared."
(i really wish ingenuine was a real word)