Fat Bag of Bones
I’m a fat bag of bones with a dead man’s tongue,
Looking at the world through wise, blind eyes,
Knowing everything… but nothing at all,
Scared to move – scared to fall.
Such is life when nearing its end,
Having lived its fullest… till it spills over again,
Knowing its value and having none,
Warning the world… with a dead man’s tongue.
Skulls and skeletons carry no life,
Whereas life… is full of skeletons and strife.
A life, it takes, to “master” them all,
Then scared to move – scared to fall.
So sit, I do, as time unfurls
And thrusts the world along the cusp
Of the turmoil that erupts
Between our perspectives… and the truth.
The truth, my friends, is that we but see
The fragment of reality
That we share throughout our lives
With friends and family… and our wives.
Comfort, do we find in this.
Security - for the lives we live.
Change, we must, should we agree
With others’ versions of reality.
‘Tis easier, for us, to be “right” –
‘Tis easier for us to stand and fight
Than to change our everything
And follow humanity’s only King.
Mustn’t we, like the leaves of trees
That grow in but all directions,
Follow the Son as He so shines
And leads us each and all,
Rather than to merely fall
In line behind each other
And in line with like kind -
With those we call “our brother”
And grow in rows upon rows
Gathering in pews as we do so
Blocking the light from our King
Drowning out His sweet voice… as we sing –
Sing the songs that we were taught
By our sisters and our brothers
With whom we grow and grow and grow
Into the rows upon the rows upon the rows of rows
Like some sick, perverted tree
With thousands of ten-thousand leaves
In one row and all lined up along one single bough
Because when asked the first and oldest leaf said that this is how
Things were done and are to be
For now and all eternity
Thus trees no longer resemble trees
And man loses all humanity.