If You Must Know

Yes, it’s real gold, ma’am —

And the painting is Renoir.

(Only I am fake)

Symphonic

Where does an echo go?

Does it fill a new soul with meaning?

Does it pass into dreams of our nostalgia?

Or does it simply fail to sustain wavelengths and fade.

 

Where does a breath go?

Does it give life to a song on a whim?

Does it transcend between self and space?

Or does it simply redistribute its components into the atmosphere.

 

Where does a life go?

Does it create and illuminate history?

Does it burn with passion and purpose?

Or does it simply distract itself until its return to dust.

Zombees

Flesh eating, stinging

Little minions of death’s swarm

I pine for honey

Formality

There’s a lot of elation

Interaction and relation

A fiercely passionate, burgeoning congregation.

 

They see their own souls

Pursue their own goals

Others are trampled, or trodden over like moles.

 

There’s an underground

More ignored than unfound

Worldly cares unheard as unspiritual, unsound.

 

They decide and divide

Quietly seethe and deride

Denominations birthed while people, millions died.

 

So where’s the love?

Coursing only from above?

Burst forth with the faith you’ve been singing of!