In the culture of self, and wilting idol
who was going to interpret the truth?
To resolve the inner conflicts of an ailing mind?
I tell no one my validity, my loss,
and my sudden realization, of a dying aura.
Give me a poem, a childhood,
a dream I wanted to live,
without maligning a mirror.
Without a cold-blooded murder of truths.
Life was becoming a waiting in blackness
for an audience with god.
A thought sits whole life
on a ruined model of a truth,
trying to get freedom
from the celebrated events of greed and hate.
Windows are not supporting the light.
Time for the greens to make a decision.
