not really

I am one in a a sea of many, looking out through a vast aray of human kind, always moving, speeding by, only hurling themselves faster to the end of their time.

 Not really seeing the sky, or the clouds of beauty swifting by.

Not really feeling  or hearing their speeding demise.

Not caring of what they might skip by, as long as their pockets are full  and they can hide their true thoughts of mind.

Afraid of death that soon will call and then be judged for all. 

On and on it goes, without a pause, like busy little ants scattered about in a desperate attempt to be the best.

But, the best of what is untold, for no one knows the true depth's of the soul