The chorus
will ignore us.
The choir
does not inspire
only praises
the holy figures
it raises
from the dead.

These flapping feathers
of holy white
that flutter up
into the night sky
carrying those
who were born
to die;

They only do well
in our fictional hell.
They only excel
when our ignorance swells
as fools falter
at the mouth of the cave
where all other innocents dwell,
waiting to be saved
by the heroes we made;

But it has been years
since I lived that way,
walking away from the shade
those incredulous leaders made.

It is lonely to seek reality
when everyone else
is ok with an ancient fantasy.

So, I pack my knapsack
hit the railroad tracks
and head back in to the black
where all traveler eventually go
cause as far as I know
there is no Heavenly place
waiting for me at the end
of this waste of space
we call the human race.