How interesting...

How interesting or so it seems,
This fine world we've built in our dreams.
All the beautiful places and beings you want to know,
Will be scarlet roses hanging above the snow.
The falling teardrops of soft fluffy petals,
Tell the story hidden in the folds of strong metal.
Reaping the tales of many a lost kin,
Honing ones skill to avoid the mark of sin.

Very few want to wake and shake off the dust,
Even less want to move, afraid of their rust.
Handfuls I'd say are willing to get clean,
Maybe several fingers worth even know what I mean...
Assuming of course that I have a clue,
How many are left who even know what to do?

Our presence alive is a beautiful thing.
So few, I'm afraid, know the joy true life can bring.
It's not about what you want or even expect;
It's about what you do with what you get.

If expressing the truth is what brings you fear,
I've nothing left to say to you my dear.
My words bear intent and that makes them heavy,
So you better prepare, start building a levy.
I've no fear of words, my understanding is clear.
Stringing together sentences while pouring cold beer.

I've more fear of thoughts and their ability to die,
A slow process if your concern lies on borrowed time.
For me it's the quality and rhythm of the rhyme.
Time I create and time I destroy,
Perspective is mine and I'm ready to employ.
When the end is is still up for debate.
Preparations I have begun to postulate.

{T}