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.