Feast

The fetid remnants of the master’s feast
Are strewn about the hall
The dripping tears of those once chaste
Dissipate into the air of unconcern
No one listens to any cry but his own

We nonchalantly weave our steps
Adroitly past the wounded
And memory serves us secondhand
If we won’t believe what we see
How can we believe what we don’t

Mindlessness has become a passion
Reality replaced by the camera’s eye
Those once guilty of exuberance
No longer remember where they left their hope
In quickstep they follow the false messiah

The horizon is clouded by the smoke of despair
Red sky at night no longer the lucky harbinger
The shepherds prey upon their own flocks
And the wolves have fled to the hills
Fearful of the consequences