Nature

Screaming emcees hawk joy to crowds of desperate hedonists, horror mongers masquerade as newscasters paid to feed us an unending line of propaganda, politicians promise us heaven woven out of hate filled dreams, and in this unending sound track straight out of Sodom and Gomorrah we fail to hear the gentle, all encompassing voice that echoes out of the garden.

The old voices, the real voices, those not engineered by the desire for gold, or power, or control, are still here, still strong, alive and well like they have always been.

The old songs ring true. "I walk in the garden alone," and "the dew is still on the roses." 

The wind still whispers of eternity and the stars of infinity.

When I'm weary, I go into the silence of nature where the songs of birds and the gurgling of water soothes me, where the trees grow bigger than me and the mountains amaze me.

This universe and its creator will be here long after all the gold lies encrusted by barnacles under some future sea and the bones of the money grubbers are jumbled together for a future archeologist.

Sometimes, when I sit in the silence of my heart, I find peace.