Traveling Constantly

Again I have come back 
in the crowd of fakes, 
to understand the nature 
of dark. 

The questions have become 
my beacons, I am prodding deep 
to stumble on the temper, 
ethos of white lies. 

You will not take your own 
life now. We will stop grieving for 
the sunken ferry. Who allowed 
the novice, third mate to steer the ship? 

Do you know, where the country 
was going? The swords had 
become a junk shop. Tongues stale, 
the language foul. 

So we will go for a collective hara-kiri?