This world we abide in is but a speck of dust
Where beings are born to flatline,
And those that expire are seen while their remains rust
In some world that’s inept or fine;
For men that are born buy the farm so they may shine
In dusty lands flowing elsewhere
Where they go to places of care.
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Hence, worlds that exist in our very small vision
Are just lies mirroring truth;
But what the true truth does is work illusion
Thus causing pain, agony, and ruth.
Still what men look for is money, fame in this booth,
A booth with so many a disease,
None of which fails to end or cease.
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Where is our dear God is a question asked and sought
Just so we may grasp what’s beyond;
But seeking our God up above is a joke bought
For He dwells in all, that’s the bond.
I trow it’d be great if this truth on you now dawned
And also that He knows what you do,
Residing quite peacefully in you.
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Categories: Rhythmic and Metric