It is strange what we make of the world
It is strange what we make of the world
Different people finding their own way
Some of us stop occasionally to listen to
A bee humming, warm waves lapping
Gently erasing the footprints of
A child, in possession of innocence
Breaking through a glass ceiling
Without spilling any blood
As others among us
Just bumble along bouncing off walls
Causing a rumpus
Breaking eggs we never eat
Making a song and dance about the way young people
Are always that much worse
Ignoring our own hand in the gradual decline.
A single flower, when looked at in silhouette
Against a monochrome background
Could never look more beautiful
There is nothing as poignant as a
Slight prick of conscience
So often maligned for the way it reminds us
Of our mistakes
It is our greatest asset.
When a dream is weighed against an idea
Of a better future
And we catch the drift before it becomes a nightmare
Always finding someone else to blame.
We are not all the same
But so many put the phone down on a whim
There are too many ideas to be heard
I hear you say
But why not listen to some,
It doesn’t take a third eye,
Instead of ceding to the loudest
Those strident voices calling for our heads
Pretending they are somehow better informed
With higher qualifications
To be purveyors of the word
Beating us into submission
With their false gods and painted idols.
Wicked is the call for self-destruction
Slip me a mickey
Dress me in a horsehair shirt
Snake-oil salesmen have a practised way
Of looking straight into the camera
As if they are talking just to you
And they keep calling it an apocalypse
When it is all they have ever really wanted.
Nobody is a sheeple
But too many are sacrificial lambs
Read the good book
It was written just for you
To offload responsibility onto a godhead figure
I wonder if he is out there somewhere
Running things from a secret bunker
In Heavensville for goodness sake
Eating chips and a burger, when the breadbasket
Is running low.
Does he ever ask for more
Does he have male pattern baldness?
I would rather take time out to paint a picture of happiness
Using different metaphors
To those, a bible thumper would,
Whitewashing truth with antiquated parables
Designed to blunt the point of self-actualisation
Know your place, it is not always
Better to be led or even to follow.
Wave them all off from an observation deck
Watch them leave the station
With the Bluebirds
As the madcaps and power junkies
Plough on in their own sweet way
In search of their self-made hell
It is no more than they deserve.