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.