Here is the shining gilded cage:
devoid of any joy; a listless place where
she goes wandering among the hollow wreckage
of a wasted life spent in selfish pursuit
of the material, where there is no warmth –
holding on to only
cold possessions
Here is the purgatory of the soul:
caught between the need to be the puppeteer
and the inevitable machinations which require him
to become the puppet; morphing into the heartless,
wooden imitation of a man
who embraces nothing
but power
Here is the empty, blackened stage:
the ceaseless posturing for false approval,
accolades from the faceless masses of sycophants
who live vicariously through you
when you're at the pinnacle -
reviling you when
you've fallen
from fame
Here now, heed the symphony of the spirit:
for without encompassing that which we truly are
all these other things will leave us abandoned and alone
rather than surrounded and fulfilled by the divine –
where all we wish and all we are capable of
can be accomplished a hundred-fold,
to be shared in abundance
with the world
in peace...