The symphony of Hollow echoes

This symphony has troubled me a lot,

It cradles the gluttony of pumpkin men

No meaning to the bones and ears, I got,

I got an orchestra playing the chicken.

The violins preached from their gilded throne,

Yet knew not a verse they called their own

The trumpets thundered of virtue and grace,

While vanity lingered on every face.

The organ bewailed mankind's sinful plight,

Yet bartered its conscience for applause that night

The cymbals clashed like zealots at war,

Guarding the gate but forgetting the Door.

Then a flute, soft-spoken and meekly wise,

Pierced through the pageantry's grand disguise

It sang that faith is not noise nor show,

But truth in the heart where no trumpets blow.