Graves, white-washed graves; sickly beauty;
Of loud mouthfuls of knowledge to passersby who care,
Of decaying putrid flesh; skeletons no one wants to talk about
Hypochondria, an almost welcome relief, is let out of the backdoor,
While melancholia ‘reins’ with bits.
At the expense of real inspiration,
Self, condemned to daily denial,
Is motivated to maintain the perfect IMAGE…
IDOLATRY! Idolatry it is,
Poor substitute for Godly piety, unabashedly denying
The very Power that could have been its Backer.
The accolades and laurels pushing for significance,
Are rewards for the good performance given…
And all are taken,
Except the unfancied plaque labelled ‘HEED!’
“It’s under control!
it’s under control!!”, they say,
Till when the last grip on the truth
Quickly slips out of the brakeless vehicle
Speeding down the steep gradient
As Blindness sadly smites Realization across the face,
Whatever high shoulders left are shrunk
And locked up under custody of roaring rodents,
That only moments ago had no semblance of a chance