Revolvers resolve nothing
Revolutions rarely do
Murder and mayhem
Sometimes supposedly
Clears the clearing
Only to be painfully pathetic
And the killing kills everything
Woeful words hurting
The individuals involved
Can only grasp gruesomely
That the warring Wanderer
Has nowhere to truly tarry
And might as well wonder
What s/he is doing doomed
Among guns of ignorant idiocy
There is little lackluster hope
That the world will ever change
Mayhap it is for the best
Man has literally learnt nothing
Will forever eventually err
The morale is for us mortals
A reality of the day : we will die
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