They muddle through their lives with naught
To stimulate their minds to thought.
They face each day without a plan;
A plan that might but better man.
They are the ones whose pace is slow;
Their lives consist of come and go.
There is no thought to motivate
These tragic souls resigned to fate,
Who cannot see the open gate.

Their minds are shrouded in a gloom;
A gloom as dismal as a tomb.
They never see the light of day,
And cannot seem to find their way.
Complacency for them seems right;
Concern for others causes fright.
They do not wish to bear the weight,
And cannot see it growing late,
While slowly feelings turn to hate.

They will but die and fade away,
As surely as the passing day.
They'll live their lives and fill a space,
While never having had a "face."
Their apathy was all they had;
The hate they propogated, sad.
But, be it as it will with fate,
There is a child behind the gate,
And now we wait.  Is it too late?

 © Charles Edwards Moss
1973

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