How beautiful it could be,
For people to come down from the clouds.
To be able to get “real”,
Without some delusional rose coloured shroud.
To say this here sucks though only transitory,
and not getting better anytime soon.
Can we call electrical artificial light,
and stop seeing a moon?
Yes, when He returns all this will change.
But for the time being,
Spiritual sight has limited range.
Why candy-coat something inedible?
Lend credence to corruption, debasement and the deplorable?
Refer to lies as if something credible?
Where are the messengers?
Why all the fluff?
Do we count on Jesus,
While compiling all our stuff?
Pleasantries and niceties,
Make me sick to my gut.
Painting rosy landscapes on canvasses dessicated,
While covered in smut.
Oh yeah, hope is real,
No doubt about it.
So okay, we’ve been called by name,
Is that supposed to be some kind of secure complacent,
Claim to fame?
Where is the conviction to go out and shout it!
Are we serving or just laboring in vain?
Are we on fire,
Or yesterday’s smouldering embers,
around a campfire,
seduced by past glories,
of the living lamed?