Wise
Pressing close I follow the Reaper,
He's dressed in Hope's bright smile.
Death, the scythe-swinging Reaper,
Bleached white, a sick, skinless smile.
With his help we have boldness,
Though bold we are helpless.
We chase and we all see the scythe,
Still we follow him until we die.
One more dead soldier,
Another child cries.
One more failed battle,
And one more disguise.
Not missing an answer,
Just missing the why's.
Fatally missing the wise,
We're fooled by the Reaper's disguise.
Drawing Death from a waterless well,
Laying hold, we drink it with pride.
Drunk with dying we cede to the spell,
Seeing nothing with both of our eyes.
If not blind we'd be hopeless,
Finding hope in our blindness.
Victory's faŤade we all crave,
So we follow him into the grave.
One more glassed planet,
A world burned at the stake.
We've never saved one,
Still we fight—for whose sake?
If we die for nothing,
We die for a fake.
We can pull off the Reaper's disguise,
And run from the sweep of his scythe,
He's revealed by the why's of the wise.
C.T. Clown
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