?

That sage was right,
for clutching alien gods,
we are but slaves of strangers,
estranged from within,
wearing a mascara of pretence.

Our growth measured by,
speed and distance from home.
Ourselves, our race,
we refuse to accept.
Sacrificing our culture,
for alien traditions.

Mimicry our trade,
these clowns that we are,
on this world stage.

And we wonder,
why we are,
the ladder’s lowest rung,
in mire.

Toys of life

To the night to death I go,
To land of dreams myself awake,
Arise the depth of soul to quake,
The quest of spirit to bake.

Awake my body,
To fore my worldly buoys.
Of petty games,
Pleasure, Power, Privilege,
And of Position, Property and Patronage.
Amusing hunts for Politics,
Popularity and Pretence.
And of other toys,
Persona, Prominence and Profit.
Pseudo passion for people persuasion

All these my body to reap,
But to the desert my spirit to keep,
When called to my eternal kip.