Simplistic versions of deities
Parade around in masks
With little to no depth
Waltzing to a slow death rhythm
The new anthem
The once rich culture
Disconnected from it’s harvest.
In manufacturing’s wake
Rests the skeleton of what once produced
Scaled down to mere broken windows
And no trespassing signs
Pride can still be felt clinging to moss covered walls
Belief still burns in the remaining dim bulbs.
There is proof that some still hold courage
Hold on to truth
A hard days work
To return home to a child’s laugh.
The clicks of a clock motor
Can send the weak to the madhouse
But for the determined the silence between the clicks
Can be inspiring
And pure love.
Our purpose is to create
And reproduce beauty
To notice the little things.
One day I promise you
Each of us will look back
And understand the little things were all that mattered
We cant have back.