From a Picture

Every dreary night
As the cast of murky greens and royal blues insist,
A group of five assembles
And tries to redeem some of modernism’s lost bliss.

They read verses from the Book of Blood
And pray, by candle light, to the Spirit of Man
That someday Selfishness will surrender
To the light touch of Tenderness’ soft hand.

But they are not alone,
A member they once disowned watches, waits, and wonders
If the secrete he stole was handed to the right people
And if the secrete he sold will ever yield gold.

Because most people would rather not hear about meetings,
Verses being memorized at secrete readings,
Or people praising the past with gloomy greetings.
That’s why dark reds still persist.

So is the price of progress.