The rhythm of the city,
an emotionless machine,
manufacturing reality,
shiny but unclean.
Built on sand and fantasy,
mirror of mirage,
reflected on the silver screen and the chrome in the garage.
Vision blinded by concrete,
callused hearts enclosed,
deafened by the drum beat,
tongues too seared to taste.
Masked by the drone of engines and chatter of the street,
still the small voice is buried and the footpath isn't seen.
Images and idols technologically devised,
words of cotton candy dissolve before your eyes,
intellect and science worshiped by decree,
giving credit to illusion so the chained believe they are free.
Fundamental skeletons in self appointed roles,
clothed in robes of office but carnivorous of souls,
speaking words that come from knowledge but do not come from light,
letters leading spirit
adding darkness to the night
anonymous
an emotionless machine,
manufacturing reality,
shiny but unclean.
Built on sand and fantasy,
mirror of mirage,
reflected on the silver screen and the chrome in the garage.
Vision blinded by concrete,
callused hearts enclosed,
deafened by the drum beat,
tongues too seared to taste.
Masked by the drone of engines and chatter of the street,
still the small voice is buried and the footpath isn't seen.
Images and idols technologically devised,
words of cotton candy dissolve before your eyes,
intellect and science worshiped by decree,
giving credit to illusion so the chained believe they are free.
Fundamental skeletons in self appointed roles,
clothed in robes of office but carnivorous of souls,
speaking words that come from knowledge but do not come from light,
letters leading spirit
adding darkness to the night
anonymous
i found this poem today in class.
it really made my day
it really made my day
1 comments:
This is part of the Christian song "Come Away" by Don Francisco. It is not completely correct though.
It should read:
The rhythm of the city,
an emotionless machine.
Manufacturing reality,
shiny but unclean.
Built on sand and fantasy,
mirror of mirage,
reflected by the silver screen, the chrome in the garage.
Vision blocked by concrete,
callused hearts encased,
deafened by the drum beat,
tongues too seared to taste.
Masked by drone of engines and the chatter of the screen,
the still small voice is buried, the footpath isn't seen.
Images and idols, technologically devised,
words of cotton candy that dissolve before your eyes.
Intellect and science worshiped by decree
giving credit to illusion, so the chained believe they're free.
Fundamental skeletons in self-appointed roles,
clothed in robes of office but carnivorous of soul,
speaking words that come from knowledge, but do not come from light,
letter lacking Spirit,
adding darkness to the night.
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