EXTREME

The world is split, it's black or white,

No room for gray, no middle light.

Each side screams, “We hold the truth!”

While reason wilts, an old, lost youth.

The leader shouts, the crowd obeys,

Their minds now sculpted, thoughts decayed.

A slogan roars, a banner flies,

But who still thinks? Who still tries?

They cheer, they boo, they rage, they fight,

Blindfolded hearts, convinced they're right.

No questions asked, no doubts arise,

Just echoes bouncing, feeding lies.

The earth revolts, the skies combust,

Fires and floods reclaim the dust.

The heat that melts, the storms that grow,

A world too lost to change the flow.

We pick a team, we take a side,

No space for those who won’t divide.

But balance bends, and balance breaks,

When reason drowns in tribal lakes.

The artist paints, the poet screams,

But silence fills the space between.

For nuance hides in shadows cast,

By dogma’s glare—unyielding, vast.

A bridge destroyed, a line in sand,

Each handshake crushed by iron hands.

A world of fists and angry screens,

Where dialogue dies in broken dreams.

Yet still, the birds ignore the war,

The rivers run, the trees still soar.

They whisper softly, “Seek the blend,

For all extremes will meet their end.”

So stand, but think—don’t kneel in rage,

Don’t let the zealots set your stage.

The middle path, though hard to find,

Is where the free still keep their mind.

For balance sways, yet holds its own,

A dance of light, of seed and stone.

The wise will walk the in-between,

And leave the chains of the extreme.