the missing piece

you say why work when pleasure and carrot is what men really want, and woman too: of gold and glitter, the asses bray loudly when it becomes quite clear their intent is not received well, they chase a hard road when the party goers throw slogans, motivational speeches because humans make meaning when there is no way out. should there be one? thus to soar in the sky, to taste the lips of every temptress, to be armed by walls, stones and moats for inside it is rich, with silver leaves used as napkins. oh what a delight! muse from the inside looking out where the hungry cry, more slogans, more cool aid, when a night without a moon becomes a lottery strike, a pack made when demons and spirits hold a covenant. thus the days of toil and sweat fade: not that one need even row in that stinking pool, strikes can come at birth, why toil indeed! for the grinding, the whining continues on behind coffee breaks, closed doors, the evening spent gossiping on what really took place, at day a mask of professionalism because it is expected. why indeed sweat? when it is quite obvious so few actually work with who they want to, where meaning is sought before, a right fit. those are few and in between, most just have to. whine, grumble, the asses bray again, when it is quite apparent the intent is not seen, felt, heard, a stronger voice, a thumping of the chest or hooves. ouch, said the pretty doll at the top of the shelves, watch it said the feckless who was still admiring the legs tucked under the table. then the plates slid down the tables, knocking off the surface, spilling contents on laps and legs, donkeys and men rushed into the castle to grab at the latest gossip, finding none for the usual banter had all halted when the clock struck twelve, the mirage parted as mirrors reflected back souls forged, identities made of hard work, discipline, fortitude old men bent low and yet stood tall within walls of illusion. what took place? what did cried the vain men and women that sought no treasure under than delights of the flesh: such dead eyes that stared back, of a life lived, never once knowing what it meant to be human. to feel pain, to suffer, to go into the valleys, to cry, to bleed to sweat to toil. to be. giving their all, without regret. lips that spoke as the mirror reflected back, without walls of illusion of vanity, pride, jealousy, lust, greed a spirit without flesh telling what really took place.