Lifeless ground turned to concrete.
People are too busy to care.
Corporate greed is the way of the privileged.
Burning is the gaze, of a perfect world.
On the stale wind, in a sheltering grave site, floats a crumpled paper.
It is trapped in the land of the emotionally dead.
It's words are now lost to the world.
It flies from the prison we call home.
No one gave so much, as a passing glance, as the paper flew on.
With it's departure, it left a mark on the cold shell of a city.
I have learned something from, this lonely paper.
No matter how perfect we think we are, we are crumpled paper as well.
--Lone Wolf1990 02:46, November 30, 2009 (UTC)