The armchair looks like a good place
To start the New Year. You look
At all the scoundrels in business; the imposters,
The sexists, the thieves, the arsonists,
And the heart robbers, and all you can do
Is wonder where did all the goodness go.
Sex sells, in any line of work,
Drugs help you become alpinists.
And love is the type you fall into,
And fall out of, burning the wick of a flame
While it perpetuated.
And con artists make
This world highly duplicitous and illusory
And in spite of all this, the good guy
Raises the collar and the bar, to indulge in a little pride,
After all the bamboo, has roped in his fate
As the taller poppy.
And the wicked ways will live on,
So will the Samaritans. In this dichotomy
You will encounter, how everyday is a duel
Between the good forces, like Jedi,
Or a church founded on a bunch of fishermen,
And the Darth Vedars and Judases,
Who rule with their black armor,
Or cheeky kisses.
And love is no infatuation, nor is it squeaky clean.
It is like a doorbell, you need to press,
To get where you want to be.
Inside a house, that in time, becomes your home.
Where there are little rooms,
You enter and dart out of.
Leaving on the glow of a light, that shines
Longer than you ever imagine…