The Strangers

I see the strangers
their faces without features.

They shuffle and roam
like some unknown sleepers.

Who are they,
what is their purpose?

Their minds blinded
to what's below the surface.

Sometimes I think I can see
one of them find meaning.

Only to be brought low
by the hoards unseeing.

So onwards they roam
unknown how to live.

Only others demanding
more of them to give.

I'm no better I suppose after all
under no assumptions of being some great changer.

I look in the mirror to also see
the blank face of a stranger.