Perhaps the treasure is in the search,
The prize in the unwrapping of it.
Perhaps we live in fear,
And we aren’t really living at all.
Perhaps the cordial hello,
Hides true pain beneath.
Look beneath the shingles at the rotting wood,
Beneath the skin at the sinking heart of man.
He brushes at his hair,
Lifts his plume to impress.
Adds tonics and potions,
To mask the smell of truth.
Glues clear eyes and strong muscles to his corpse,
Returns again and again to his folly.
This is not death, as we know it to be,
This is living, modernly.
Modern man is pleased with his loot,
But never appeased with it.
These are our trappings, and our traps,
And they have got us by the prehensile tail.
So run to your friends and show them,
They will envy you all the more.
And with their envy you lose their love,
Because they would rather have what you have, then have you.
Excuse me, I must ready myself,
And meet some friends.