The Belonging of Man

The faded light of dawn soothes the soul,
and this effortless life begins anew;
the soft sounds of the morning lull
the fear to sleep, and the darkness too.
But before long, here comes the hole
that opens up the chance for those few
who would see us choke in Sheol,
demons who leave us to what Desire would do.

The whispers of love grace the breeze,
and tender encouragement spontaneously is here;
feel the motherly warmth and the careless ease,
leaving fingerprints of everything comfortable and dear.
Then again, the finicky winds carry disease
and seize our paralyzed bodies with fear
that steal faith even as doubt flees,
praising every word that ever drew a tear.

That slow, silent sea,
swirling with every blue and purple dye,
summons those of joyous decree,
pacifying the slightest, smallest sigh.
And yet, take a solid minute to see
how those cruel sirens cry,
taking away all ability to flee
and stating that our fate is to die.

Look, here surely is safety, hope,
bundled inside these jungles of deep green,
holding gently to that fragile gift to cope,
secure in those trees with leaves of a dewy sheen.
But then appear famines that grope
even as the land lies lean
to tie and bind our joy with rope,
telling us to forget the bliss we’ve seen.

Turn here, feel the love, the adoration,
feel the years of happiness as they span,
make sure to laze around in the glorious creation,
and imagine that there is some divine plan.
Watch this crude imitation
of godlike splendor from a can
that has only brought devastation:
such is the belonging of man.