Wars and disease may be the cause
Of some man’s expiration
Yet isn’t it true that most of us live
In a state of quiet desperation?
Imprisoned as we are by the bore of routine
Immersed in a quagmire of rut
Holding the mentality to break clean away
But lacking in courage and gut.
We are what we are, but are we?
The product of our upbringing
The sum and substance of what we’ve been taught — With some admonitions still ringing.
So many of us go thru the motions
We act out the play til it’s thru,
And once having finished, we stagnate
While we covet a favored review.
Time passes by all too swiftly
And leaves in its wake things undone,
We anguish at our own ineptitude
Of so many songs yet unsung.
The world is too much with us.
In gaining and spending we waste
Our chance to reflect and to learn from
The void we have left. In our haste.
We’ve misused our natural resources
Dissipated our own energies, We glory in fame and fortune And we seek false security.
So we live in quiet desperation
Reaping the seeds that we’ve sown Unable or unwilling to take action
In fear of the vast unknown.
Or is it, as I’ve oft suspected As I sit, uncommitted, on the shelf
Realization that we’ve no one to turn to—
No one, that is, but ourselves.

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