They want better clothes,
But they are not naked.
They want fancy food,
But they are not hungry.
They want each other,
When they have each to themselves.

The fool stays in his father’s house.
Though his father resides there no more.
He fears the field.
A field his father readily embraced.
And so the fool stays home.
Allowing it to consume him from within.
Those are fools.
They never leave.

The fool eats the bread of sorrows.
He sits inside agony.
He says “Patience is a virtue.”
He backs that up with a bible verse.
He’d say any and every quote,
To justify the illtreatment he’s receiving on a golden platter.
He’d say any and every quote,
To dignify his miserable life.
A fool.

Like the rest of fools.
Fools’ wounds are forever bleeding open.
He doesn’t know how to say “I don’t want to talk about that.”
Dished with a question, he answers.
And then, he sleeps miserable from all that talking.
He’s a fool.

They are fools.
They have the kind of hopelessness
Which looks like helplessness,
But is instead foolishness.