Progress is the art
To go forward
To move on
And to change for the better
Crooked tongues feed soft minds and infect us with thinking
That this "progress" is enough
Nothing has changed
The small boy keeps dying
Clinging to his mother's corpse
The young woman is silenced
Forced to give her voice to a megaphone made of fool's gold
The old man keeps shaking his bony finger
His condescending gaze
Acting like a flock of crows
Perching scaly talons upon our backs
And we call this progress
Alas the clock still ticks
And only time progresses
Nothing has changed
Let not their split tongues poison the well in which we nourish our mind
Something has changed
One thing has changed
The way lips curl around cruel words
Forming bullets made of straight teeth from the crooked soul
Is no longer ignorance
Just honesty
Let not our children walk upon bones
Let not history repeat itself
Let us rise
And define
Progress
