DISORDERED PLAY.
Is it sin
Or rather disorder
That would plague our immortal souls?
As we focus our attention
On the things which we behold;
That is, the one’s we see,
The one’s we feel,
The one’s which we are told;
While we sacrifice the one’s we are
For the one’s that we are sold.
Proper order reaches depths
Beyond the senses;
To touch parts of us
We forgot as we grew
From a darling little,
Bundled, baby being
Into what I must become,
Achieve or do.
Oh, accomplishment is quite
The carrot stick in this world;
Second only to the glory
It can bestow;
But the result of the pursuit
Of such success
Is a burden
We always close behind us tow;
Since there is never a U-haul trailer
Following a black hearse
And our last jacket is
Without pockets on it sewn;
So the challenge is
To realize before it is too late
There is so much
We must forsake
And we must disown.
Therein is the climax
We should be achieving;
Getting ready for
The denouement and end
Of the play and of the part
We all act so well
As we fail the plot
And story to comprehend.
This life is only for us
Each a dress rehearsal,
Maybe even just a tryout
For the part
Where we want to put our best foot
Forward absolutely
But must wait for the director
The cast to start.
Call to order
All the rabble
For the trial;
Stand up for the judge
Who rises above the room;
The play will end
And the critics will judge
The whole performance
And we will celebrate or
Wallow in our gloom.
Is it sin or
Is it just a sad disorder?
A blindness
Which we cannot see beyond;
Because we cannot see
The proof of any other
And of the likes of this life
We have become so fond.
I need a habit
To remind me
Of the holy journey;
That I fail to see
Or appreciate every day;
I need some order
To this confusing life upon us;
I need a reminder
To close my eyes
To kneel and pray.
2014.02.20.0000 ©
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