Misery Index

Born under black skies, with no expectations,
We crawl through our paralyzing pantomime of life,
Awaiting resurrection, the great unwashed seethe,
In quiet desperation we accept our condition fatally,
Is this the present?
Can we call this life?
And for the future... utopian, dystopian, or death?
Thirty million voices, slogging through the undergrowth,
As islands in prosperity, they fuel it with their blood,
In total separation, they scavenge for their daily bread
Forgotten citizens, a class in themselves lost at sea,