saturated

too much does not exist, it does but it is not accepted. pleasure is dulled, vitamins become toxins, songs of mirth become dreary and lackluster. the cup overflows, or so it seems when nectar keeps pouring in - and yet no joy is found. how strange, pondered the cup whose philosophy sat on a knife edge, balancing precariously while the world weeps. cried. bled. and heaven hears the broken reed, grace. mercy. the language of love blasphemed, mocked, spat on. still no recognition in the eyes, no ear muffs need stuff those hardened because the god they serve decrees it so! the knife cuts deep, becomes a mortal wound, of spirit, of nature, of a tempering of circuits made to rewire. the logic was sound, the faith was intact, the chorus eternal. more is not always better, says who? labels can always be marketed differently, it sells. what sells? then the man with more flourished gold dust into the crowd, they too wanted more. you see: i am no hypocrite, i just am slightly better than the masses envious of what is mine, calling me greedy. the debate never ends does it? heaven weeps, tears, blood shed into a cup barely half filled. crimson red, quickly forgotten when pleasure mounts. screams, yells, scratches for attention and all this while, the half filled cup morphs, transforms, changes to a cup spilling with nectar. half forgotten, half erased, half still believing in a legend, a myth, a good bedtime story. lukewarm, insipid, hesitating a frozen something, neither hell bound nor redemptive. then ... ... the gray became clear, the dark clouds lifted, a sight seen, it was not pretty, it was not even remotely decent. insipid, inactive, lifeless, how could the gray be seen for anything but what it always had been? and heaven laughed, heaven no longer wept, it was judgement time.