the missing piece

too often we hasten to own,

all that we see and smell.

"mine, mine, mine! I want it now!"


from boys to toys,

the wish list begins to grow,

as the insecure mind latches onto a new possession to fill the void.


but stacks become clusters

that fester the holy shrine,

till we're left with dried vines that stretch across the barren plain,


too easily we succumb to the hedonistic lie,

unable to see beyond the dusty fields.

in pain and fear we cry,

until the rain washes away the filth we reek.