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.