Maybe it is its presence
That whispers in your ears.
That drives you insane.
That makes you scared.
Your fear of the unknown that is dictated
By the uncontrollable urge
To control your future.
To control your past.
To change your past.
Its wings, painted like a butterfly
More of a moth, Dreary, Drab
Very few promises that it can actually guarantee.
Serenity, silence from the speakers at the pulpit
When you ask them
What it is He can promise.
It is dressed up,
Made itself pretty to entice you.
But it is little more than pieces of paper
Tacked to a board, Crossed in a T.
Printed by the hundreds and handed out at birth
Whether you want it or not.
Whether you understand it or not.
Never waiting for reality,
Never waiting for it to hit you
Wasting your life waiting
Working for the end.
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