Yellow Rumination

Amidst these lightly chattering crowds,
blaring speakers, still selling apparent needs of men and women,
Grinning merchants with cameras, clothes, alcohol, and herb rotisserie grills,
and lying signs, adorn with color schemes proved effective by
years of psychological testing. Among these, between cracked slabs of
concrete, grow tenacious grasses, still reaching for a higher sun.
Their voice, or lack thereof, speaks purely, sweetly singing hymns of alabaster
tone, of brassy resilience, of warmly genial imminence undone.

Illiterate monks, these simple saints divine,
unchanting, sealing eyes of slowly darkening wine.

Their gaze perplexes me; I am confused their simple message; it's profundity perplexes me. No spoken words they utter, despite surrounding din. Yet, wearing verted banners, they wretch a consciousness from its morphined sleep.
Like fattened sheep, unhungry, do we mill around their truth unyielding.
Stuck in throes of foolish youth we endlessly cavort and run towards inevitable demise, spurred on by each and every of the currently reigning lies.
I find far more of myself in these and leaves of time.

Yet, I must, after all, live in the world
in states of lightly toasted ecstasy.

I see that they, with their quaintly leering eyes,
against me boldly, rightly, and with nothing but the truth,
each man, each monk, each living being has testified.