Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done and what I had toiled to achieve, everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind; nothing was gained under the sun. –Ecclesiastes 2:11
How many paint brushes die in the attic?
How many writers just lay down their sword?
How many singers whisper in a closet?
How many preachers just echo the word?
How many teachers sit hushed in a cube?
How many lovers sleep together all alone?
How many fighters fall watching the tube?
How many dreamers are longing for home?
In sameness monotony we hide in suburbia,
Fashioning our regimen in regimented fashion.
Indifferent denial we declare it’s utopia.
Our impotent hearts devoid of love’s passion.
We repeat old patterns through time and space,
Waking each morning to a day older face.
We complain about rushing…about going too slow.
Completely surrounded and completely unknown.
We dream of a place we fear just might exist
While writing our grocery and to-do lists.
We retire each night taking stock of our lives,
Kicking ourselves for buying into the lies.
Yet in this functional madness you came,
For one painful moment to cry out your name.
So utopia, as we know it, can come crashing down,
In eerie slow motion like tears with no sound.