In the theater of life, a soliloquy I raise,
To the heavens, my voice, in both angst and praise.
Tell me, O world, what’s real and what’s guise,
In the masquerade ball where truth often dies?
Why, O why, does your essence provoke debate,
A mirage in the desert, a sealed, uncertain fate?
At the core of your being, do you weep or celebrate,
As we dance around facts, and in rumors, we wade?
What’s the point of love, that tender, brittle spark,
When its touch has left me to wander in the dark?
I’ve offered my heart, a sacrificial token, so stark,
Yet in return, I’ve reaped solitude, cold and stark.
Why do I find hate, an easier path to tread,
When love’s sweet promise has left me for dead?
A paradox of feeling, a heart that’s been bled,
Yearning for warmth, but finding ice instead.
One you, one essence, beneath the sun’s dominion,
Yet a thousand faiths claim their unique opinion.
Why does the divine, in manifold vision,
Sow seeds of discord, not unity’s fruition?
Why must every word we utter breed division,
A cacophony of views in endless collision?
We preach of peace, yet with derision,
We scorn the echoes of our very own mission.
Tell me, why do the pious, with fervent diction,
Speak of love, yet with such contradiction?
They offer salvation, a celestial ticket’s inscription,
But their ears are closed to their own conviction.
So, to the preachers, the saints, the sinners,
To the losers, the champions, the beginners:
Let us strip away the masks, the saintly veneers,
And face the music, the truth, and our fears.
For in the end, it is not about the hate we brew,
But the love we can salvage, the good we can do.
Amidst the chaos, let’s find the real, the true,
And forge a path of understanding, ever anew.
R.M Anderson 2023
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