The Real Wasteland
The poet says that war is a wasteland.
But there is a crueller breeding.
Where those who drink coffee
And breathe the secondary smoke of their lovers
And drink the Scottish honeyed poison
And those who make slavish mortgage payments
And chase the tinselled glory of the cup
Or the greasy position
Or the fickle adulation,
Waste away in their own self.
Where the innocence of the childish
And the trust of the good man
And the naturalness of a pure women
Is hijacked by their sin nature.
The playground of the cheerful dying
is found in the skeptic of the extra dimension
who says seeing is believing;
those who are blinded by unbelief of truth.
The wasteland of the Adam nature separates death from life:
What is true from the truth,
The game from its purpose,
The mask from the face,
Tradition from it's reason,
Oil from water,
Salt from pepper,
Heaven from Earth.
Nothing eternally remains there
Nothing spiritually remains there
Only an inhabitanted wilderness
Where the heat breeds the life that rots.
What a waste.
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