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Climbing higher still |
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it is necessary to pause |
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and think on the odd |
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or abstract steps along |
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the narrow staircase you are on, |
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as are all of us. |
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In them we'll find the answers |
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for which our longing grows |
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with every passing hour. |
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Until then we must continue to observe. |
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We haven't come so far |
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to tear ourselves apart |
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at seams that we have stitched |
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in otherwise perfect existences. |
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The difference between us and animals |
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is that we are cognitive enough to choose |
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to chew through instead of just doing |
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or otherwise dying. |
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Survival is no longer a priority |
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in the eyes of how it was originally defined. |
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Now, it is a mockery of its former self. |
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An apparition in the mirror's image: |
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still there but only semi-whole and floating along, |
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drifting in and out of conscious thought. |
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How the mighty have fallen down. |
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Tempting the hand of fate over and over |
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has only ever seemed to make us grow, |
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all while holding on to the lessons learned. |
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Thrown into colder exposures |
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we have always warmed our souls. |
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Like the match girl in the alcove, |
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sheltered from the snow, |
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we all want to be warm before we go. |
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One by one, the matches fall |
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with dwindling visions of a brighter future, |
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but the glow is finally found when the whole box burns. |
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As good may not exist |
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without its counterpart of evil, |
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such, I feel, is unity |
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without the notion of division. |
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Divided and crawling away from human nature, |
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we find ourselves trapped in the modern age |
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with a growing phobia of culture |
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in these United States. |
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How the mighty have fallen down. |
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Wrench yourself from your sweat-drenched stance |
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of envy and greed. |
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Stretch your hands in any direction you please, |
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but just don't sit there stagnating. |
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Hope is the filthiest four letter word |
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to the old and dying prisoner of war, |
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so use the tools at your disposal |
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to capture and to hold |
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what is most real in your soul |
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and never let it go. |
