What kind of morning is this, darker than the darkest night?
What kind of light is this, where nothing comes to our sight?
What kind of life is this, where nothing makes any sense?
What kind of words are these, where everything uttered is pretence?
What kind of lies are we told, all truth is held at bay?
What kind of dreams are sold, all falsehoods every way?
What kind of past is this, where nothing common is shared?
What kind of past is this, where only the acrimonious have dared?
What future lies ahead, in this hopelessness and despair?
What hurts can we heal, what damages do we repair?
What do we do to get away, in this dystopia of today?
What do we do to stay afloat, in this age of decay?
What kind of hope is there, not a glimmer in the distance?
What kind of path lies ahead, except that of resistance?