Truth Poem by Andrew Benton

Perhaps the greatness of the mind
is found within the many ways
we interact among our peers
during our finite flow of days.

Perhaps tenderness of the heart
is not amongst our passions fleet,
but rather in the flowing years
which constitute a stature sweet.

Perhaps the purpose of our soul,
the cause of all our suffering,
is flung beyond the world’s reach
in chords which only fate may sing.

But yet assuredly I say,
as fickle hours burn to dust,
the essence of our mortal self
is oft consumed by morbid lust.

And what a needless burden we
upon ourselves unjustly bring—
our spirits are of molten gold,
and yet we bring no offering.