One day is a world of night-time and day,
A woman raped under anaesthetic.
While soldiers guard the Middle Way,
Priests pride themselves on being athletic.
While meadows reek of insecticide
And microplastics fill the oceans,
The widows seek to stem the tide
But can’t contain their mixed emotions.
And the wonder-working, golden shrub
Is left to wilt in the witch’s garden,
While the witch herself is down the pub
And drinks a toast to the killer’s pardon.
To get them out of the mess they’re in,
The people look to politicians.
But, when their would-be leaders win,
They’re stymied by “severe conditions”.
It’s this of which the prophets spoke
And garnered needle for their trouble,
Until each one of their voices broke
Like a tiny, rainbow-coloured bubble.
Although the crowd have heard the cries
Of the baby in the bulrush basket,
Not one of them shall sympathise
Until it’s lying in a casket.
And all good works have turned to dust
On the lifeless eyes of those who wrought them.
Though cherish you will, perish you must,
As cares are found by those who’ve sought them.
Some hope to God that He will speak.
His voice, they think, must be consoling.
Meanwhile, the vulture’s bloodied beak
Sets the bell of parting tolling.
And money’s said to rule the roost –
“Get some now, or you’ll regret it!”
Thus, even teachers are seduced –
The ones it’s thought would say “Forget it!”
For all the virgins’ great to-do,
Their efforts can’t be said to matter,
Now science backs the point of view
The Earth is flat and getting flatter.
And wisdom’s like a running sore
On the forehead of a girl at college.
Meanwhile, her “friends” must suffer more
Before they’ll tread the path of knowledge.
An angel born to a friend of mine
Lies buried in the depths of ardour.
And, though the sun was due to shine,
A blood-red rain is falling harder.
And those who seek the peace within
Shall only end up empty-handed.
It’s not that they can’t ever win;
It’s just the world on which they’ve landed.
Till humanity shall come of age,
The state of things shall surely worsen.
These aren’t the ravings of sheer rage
But God’s sworn vow to every person.
And all of this just goes to show
We’ve all been mad since thought took over.
To look at it, you wouldn’t know
Each of us holds a four-leaf clover.
The world is neither two nor one;
It’s light and heat and – yes! – illusion,
Appearing like a deal that’s done
By means of symbiotic fusion.
So live as if you had a choice,
And don’t go blaming “mental illness”.
The universe has but one voice,
And the word upon its tongue is “Stillness”.
Photo by Greg Rakozy on Unsplash