True inspiration is sadly extinct.
The old songs and movies cannot alone,
Overcome the falsehood to which we are linked;
Where traditions are soiled, as if we have grown.
Love creates hatred, and in our world of truth,
Jealous minds insecurely destroy passion;
Like a fable of Aesop purely intentionally uncooth
As dust is to roads in way of peculiar fashion.
Yet like an infant who dreams in pictures
In a world of words and failures and stain:
I tend to imagine us as fixtures,
Unknowingly teaching through our pain.
As content as a child hearing his own choir,
I shall transcend love, long after I retire
by ritt