The Idea

It’s but a trick of the mind.
One employed by the refined,

And the crude among thee,
Without intent and knowingly.

At the fore of evolution,
There is, in here, a solution,

To the troubles of our time,
For the advancement of our kind.

What we want is all the same.
Yet we’re distracted by our blame.

Finding flaws, finding sin.
Never once looking within.

Never once considering.
What it is we’re littering.

Not the world, and not our mass.
Material is of a past,

Kept alive by superstition,
Littering our intuition.

We still know how this will go.
We move toward this not too slow.

And what is this thing called ‘we’?
A vehicle, a nominee?

It’s not the people, after all.
It’s the idea, and that is all.