The Truth of the World
Pillows float by on an endless sky;
watching, waiting for some semblance of life
to come and pass by.
The teardrops of angels sing from the heavens
and whisper – ever so gently –
asking for a name.
Roses bloom in the blink of an eye
then fade away as fate draws near;
the fear implanted deep inside.
Fate is none too kind here.
Fate is not one of the crying angels
or their beds in the sky.
No, it is the reason
the tears even fall; the reason
the pillows dare not touch ground.
Fate is the plague; the scourge
of corruption in man’s material mind,
full of greed and hate and violence.
The old peoples cringe against
this tea-kettle onslaught
that has invaded their world.
And soon, the corruption will no longer
be corruption, but only the expectation
of every inhabitant of earth.
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