The Price Of Emptiness

We live in a world where gold tips the scale,
Where the worth of a man is the size of his sale.
The wedding is grand, the feast for the eye,
But love’s quieter, hidden, left withering to die.

The funeral procession is long, dressed in black,
They honor the casket, not the life that it lacked.
The dead are a whisper beneath polished wood,
Yet the price of the burial—oh, that was good.

We praise the containers, the glittering show,
But the heart that beats within? We hardly know.
The mind that could spark a world newly born,
Is cast to the shadows, ignored and forlorn.

It’s profit that matters, not wisdom or grace,
The shape of the surface, the mask on the face.
We feed the body, we starve the soul,
The spirit of man plays a secondary role.

For intellect is free, but a meal has a cost,
And in this culture of wealth, the true self is lost.
We worship the shine, the glamour, the gloss—
But it’s the content, not the container,
That pays the greatest loss.