A Guided Tour for the Affluent
where nothing quite is what it seems!
The scene you see is apt to float
Like mirages of a misty moat.
The hourís late, the sky is red,
The Lord is coming, yes, He who bled!
No mercy will He bring with Him
for those who donít invest in Wisdom...
for those who donít listen to Wisdom.
The titles to all the castles you see
belong to owners absentee;
The flowers in the flower box?
They donít need water, just like rocks.
The fountains spout right from the ground.
Artesian wells? Or pipes unsound?
The street is silent, without birds,
itís eerie, strange beyond words.
See those people? Phantoms all,
the same stuff used in every wall;
And those lawns--you need not mow;
Theyíre made from strips of greened Astro.
Dreamless people tour the lot,
they think that happiness is bought,
someone elseís grief and pain
turned into their private gain.
Someone elseís anguished night
somehow transmutes to their right;
Never mind the blood and tears
each flower and each sidewalk bears!
haggard, worn with care and lack;
Each door is hanging loose, ajar,
no bitter wind is given bar.
Each tumbled chimney, sagging roof,
is met by eyes that gaze aloof;
Each rutted lane and weedy yard
is greeted by a heart grown hard.
The widow, orphan, aged pair
go unseen, they seem not there;
The lonely cripple, sick shut-in--
designer furniture within!
Hear that dying rattle in the room?--
Chopin to an ear entombed;
Mansions raised to othersí dreams
nightmares turn and horror streams.
Mocking all who stroll and pass,
the residents greet rich and crass;
They know theyíre really there.
These visitors? Mere vapor, air!
The roses? They spring from hearts
trampled, torn, and pierced with darts;
The very soil is the same
that once soaked up a brotherís blame.
Cain, we read, lived on this road;
His brotherís worth turned to a goad;
He struck and Abel lost his life,
and Adamís home collapsed in strife.
ďWho is my brother?Ē is still asked
now by those who pass with lifted brow;
They use no club, no knife, no gun,
Yet the murder still is done.
Indifference and selfishness
Can slay with the same deadliness;
They pass by othersí crying need
to indulge all these dreams that bleed.
They do not mark that someday soon
these dreams will turn red like the moon;
Illusions most think beautiful
will shift to judgment cups brim full.
And, so, be careful where you step!
That primrose path on which you crept
is razor thin, a sure, sharp sword
that will return via the Lord.