A Sense of Folly

Colin Cutler
March 2008

In the screaming of your anger,
In the mocking of your fun,
I hear the silent tears fast dripping
For the paradise you've won.

In the lotioned, pawing fingers,
In the painted, plastic face,
I feel the tragic, touching fever
That inspires your rising race.

In the hollow sockets staring,
In aimless shuffling of feet,
I see evolvéd phoenix beauty
Where reason's madness, madness meets.

In the love of sugared wisdom,
In the spices on old meat,
I taste your fondness for denial
And empty relish in your teeth.

In perfuméd waves of nonsense,
In the incensed, burning sores,
I scent suspicion ever growing
That the stench of death is yours.

Ah! Ironic man, who raised yourself
And freed your mind from superstitious toys!
Test your senses now and realise:
Who slays the soul and God, himself destroys.