The book of lies. The lives of the clean

I climb the spiraling slippery spire that sings lie to sooth the silent majority
and I look down upon them
I see white
No colour hits me from their now dry, dry eyes
Dead.
But they live.
Through a fake black bound book that is read from.

I sit above the clouds,
and see
Grandmothers loving
Fathers dying
Mothers trying to live
under the pressure of men
talking book to her
Not
human.

Young ones cannot find the answers in the book
They panic
Oh merciful loving creative gifted kind calm living beautiful resourceful everywhere... Umm brilliant God where are the answers that the loving man wrapped in scriptures and dressed in white said they would be there

They are not there, and panic
Like cowering children
Surviving on the scraps
that was given to them
Amen.

I tried to make them see
that their destiny was not
for everyone to be able to
see
To live for the faith, not for the flying
man that they think tells them
serve.

I see improvments in a new
generation
that lives for momentary
pleasures
not the
long term fears of the bounding book
tries to inflict on those few children.
But.
Cannot.