Fetch
Entangled by the web we weave,
thoughts provoked, but, yet deceive.
Passing blame with slight, of hand,
a golden calf that shines so grand.
An altar set, his words are praised,
a barren field his flock is grazed.
Thirst and hunger are seldom quenched,
until at last, they all are trenched.
Be careful of the book you read,
a soured quill will slay your seed.
Praising ink wrote down by man,
is not the way and not the plan.
A fleeting moment comes every hour,
self-righteous deeds will soon devour.
Open your eyes and see the catch,
He throws the ball while you play fetch.
Copyright © Mark Koplin | Year Posted 2023
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