Unfinished

I think of all the words I wrote
And wonder where I was.
I wonder who that little girl be,
What I am right now, you see.
But whose to say these games we play
Are all but one thing, the Truth.
Passing every day in what we do and say,
I mildly wander and wonder in rote.

See a cadavier, except its mortality,
As my frame, and my eyes,
Instead of its clouded whites.
Blood flows through me like red-clad sprites!
...Not a minute of every day
Is anything but the Truth.
It hovers all around us like clouds on a rainy day,
And wickedly we are shewn from our true morality.

What am I to do now I wonder...
As I begin to see an overgrown road.
All the signs around me could never tell me its name.
Eerily I feel that Truth might be... one and the same.
These feelings I get; they get tucked away.
Because no one else wants to THINK of the Truth!
Even if it's unpleasant, it has It's say.
Instead we shred this World asunder...........

My main question now, is that I wonder how
A people could have been so duped.
I wonder what makes them so stubborn and blind,
For if they would but try to open their mind,
People might see a new sunrise on a new day.
Ah, but what of the significance of Truth?
For Truth for all people is equal in its own way...
How much more darkness will we allow?

So I find myself melting from what They say is society.
Yes, I refer to those distinct few.
The time is coming where Earth's people mature
They cannot allow that, of that I am sure.
I find my myself angry, grieved and astray,
Misfit, driven, and wan to discover Truth.
I feel urgency deep inside, warning me not to delay