Instead of purity of heart,
You have purity of skin
Which isn't anything
You can take with you in the end.
But, you insist and persist
On making the superficial
The all and end all
Of your existence- hence
You make your appearance
Your deliverance
And judge every book by
Your book cover;
And those covers that don't please
Are trashed,
Smashed and mashed,
Then thrown over without a glance.
Its pages ungleaned,
Its knowledge deferred
And interred-
Hence
What's transferred?
What is learned?
Not a thing.
For its pages,
Remain unknown,
Still
Unread through the ages.
What is lost?
Who's to say?
What the contents are
under the cover.
What you get is
What you give;
Therefore,
All you have-
Are just book covers
Covering dust in the end.
