The wagons, encircled,

      the gates have been drawn.


Unless a devotee

      it might turn out wrong.


All bits and pieces,

      at one time, a song.


I used to be out there,

      but didn’t belong.


Now, I’m back inside –

      outside of the throng.


I hear them still chanting

      their mind numbing song.


Another religion,

      a convent of craze.


Savants of die-hard,

      Avant-garde Kool aide.


Just bits and pieces

      won’t make the parade.


The soul itself leases

      into the charade.



©2014, Marvin Welborn

19 April 2014.

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