A fetish for takers and feckless of makers,
believers of fakers and the muckrakers,
a sea of red buttons seen from above,
swaying to orange for whom they love.
The air is heated with hate that’s spewed.
But that’s cool if already screwed.
Mirrors shine on what’s not there,
while reflection dulls what’s to fear.
A line in the ocean’s making waves,
digging ever deeper graves.
Float if be as bobbing naves,
but beware or soon be slaves.
No half or full with no cup,
once buried there is no up.
What lies below lies above,
only truth can raise all with love.