It is not what you think.You count the milesAnd tallyThe receipts,But you do not seeThe measure Of what They sayYou’ll be.And when you think Yourself behind,You look to booksAnd study faces.And all of your gloryIs no more Than the reflectionOf the fallen.And the pot stirs round A witches brewOf boiling vomit.And in each man’s eyesThe ghastly CountenanceOf the lost.The skin A ghostly pallor,Each a demonSet to devourHis neighbor.But to yourselvesYou’re not that bad.And the eagles look downUpon youFrom high aboveAnd perceive With sharper eyesThe earthbound hostsGrubbling about In the dirt,Digging And tilling it upIn search of silver,And they turn Their eyes awayIn shameAnd fly awayTo the mountainsWhere they mourneThe loss Of His supreme creation.And all the whileYou fret Your bottom lineAnd fear the dayWhen it all collapses.Yes, it is not what you think.

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