People Surround Me

People surround me,

But what are they at the grave?

They falsely say they realize

That we are our own god,

And wait for nothing else to save

Them from themselves.

People surround me,

But we never see each other.

They haven’t got the energy

To find what Heaven is,

To know that we are one another

And the same selves.

People surround me

Each day behind desks of work,

But after the habitual hello

We turn to the papers

Not seeing that in each must lurk

Something called soul.

People surround me

With their mouths in telephone gags.

They are as wooden poles

Or like empty papers.

Their heads are stuffed with rags

And they are not.

People surround me,

But our hands are not near touching.

Our tongues do not quite see

That we share the same heart.

We cannot admit of any such thing

Or find ourselves.

People surround me

And are as lonesome as I am.

They are man, which is misery,

Clutching tightly to their cross,

Keeping locked within their own

Outside myself.

People surround me,

But what are they at the grave?

Will they soon come to realize

We are not our own god

And call on something else to save

Them from themselves?