The Voice
Thrown into this, wrecked house of posturing beauty,
For countless sins devoted.
It all seems bleak to me,
No mind, but  a struggling search for duty.
This ball, I had heard, has always been a tie,
To Like and love are the emotions enjoyed.
Why then, like tied goats of myriad herds,
Abide by a deceiving voice from the sky.
I see no soul, only bitter spirit,
But To the multitudes, it flows out like honeyed orchids.
Bleed, upon gathering, they are merely the goats of the voice,
Then it stirs me, as I breathe, do they have a choice?
Perturbed by this cunning act,
Pale and morose, the gold touch, they lack
I Speculate, who has charmed them hither?
Self-realization the vital guide, it is the voice from the sky that withers.
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Augmenting by time, upon stern averseness to abide,
Dragging every mortal, by a book, resembling guide.
The voice, they readily entrust,
Then why create oxygen, which makes the body rust?
This dwelling is hired, between good and bad,
Yet No conclusion to being happy or sad.
Don’t they grasp, it is the bad, dressed in vibrant robes,
Slaying the mind, to nurture groundless hopes.
