Holding on to things that
at the end of the day
are sure to be left behind

Laboring away precious time
for lots of money, to pay
for escaping the grind

Wanting and seeking love
yet giving some, never
crossing the mind

Worshipping the mortal
external while to the internal
eternal beauty remaining blind

Always restless and searching
not knowing what is it
that we are looking to find

Staying trapped in such ironies
we think we are free, our world
is surely a mad house of a kind!