It is not what you think.
You count the miles And tally The receipts, But you do not see The measure Of what They say You’ll be. And when you think Yourself behind, You look to books And study faces. And all of your glory Is no more Than the reflection Of the fallen. And the pot stirs round A witches brew Of boiling vomit. And in each man’s eyes The ghastly Countenance Of the lost. The skin A ghostly pallor, Each a demon Set to devour His neighbor. But to yourselves You’re not that bad. And the eagles look down Upon you From high above And perceive With sharper eyes The earthbound hosts Grubbling about In the dirt, Digging And tilling it up In search of silver, And they turn Their eyes away In shame And fly away To the mountains Where they mourne The loss Of His supreme creation. And all the while You fret Your bottom line And fear the day When it all collapses. Yes, it is not what you think.
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