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You read so many books to know it all,
yet fail to ever read your heart at all.
You rush to holy shrines to play a part,
Would you dare enter the shrine of your heart
You are quick to attack the evil one,
yet pride is a battle you have not won.
You grab for a star you can control,
yet fail to grasp the light in your soul.
These faces,
reminiscence of the past or
hope of the future
Are they the seekers of knowledge or
that answer that
so many asked for
fewer heard, and
virtually no one acquired?
Does this thought,
fly with the free wind or
knock on that barrier
that jests on the hopelessness of its aspirations
No, for it is not a thought,
that is heard in a cautions voice,
read in colorless books and,
felt in the cold darkness of the night.
Alas! what of that knowledge,
that cannot disturb a stagnant pool,
a darkened corner,
support a falling idol,
this very thought,
this very knowledge,
how many lives,
how many mortalities,
have been wasted in their acquisition,
and their followship.
to the extent that we decorated,
this fallible and borrowed awareness
mistaking it for our success,
although it is a humiliating wreath of our failures,
that we adorn with such desire,
and with pride,
we knight our names with.
Speak, what is life
if that life is spent in a blink,
the fruitless dirt of with this idol is made,
is stained with time,
and tradition,
and when the fire of regret and repentance,
extinguished its continence,
with the water of pity,
we did bathe it,
and clothed we did the idol with the amphora’s and
buried it within the very darkness it ran away from,
this is the very question, that is worn on these visage's,
and when there is no answer, they say,
we fear the heathen fire,
and desire only of Eden,
and this reality?
It is but an illusion,
a trial,
then why the pain of a wound
and what of the tear shed for a broken heart?
the down trodelen who pleads for his right,
why not wait for divine emolument with open arms?
And the ignominious who fuels his avarice,
he is worthy of pity then, is he not?
god of a scholar is knowledge, then prostration of what deity?
After all whatever was earned was with the sweat of one's own brow,
and the books that were worshipped yielded to one's wishes,
then what lord of the universe?
Their concern is but with this world, and all its glimmer.
And the god of helpless is patience,
and they wait their entire lives for the hand of retribution,
that mightiest show them the light of a day of hope
for a God is no god who does not test.
After all, their bivouac is the day of judgment is it not?
For we are all blind in this darkness,
what can we behold?
We are mute and lonely,
whom shall we call with rotundity?
So with a countenance of inquiry,
and the hope of an answer,
we wait for the subtle entrance of death,
Never caring to actually live the answer to our question!
With this grimace
Pleading
Sharing the pain, rowing the boat
Asking for his blessings, waiting expectantly
Countless centuries have passed by
Only now has it been revealed
The one who you had appealed to
The one who held your hand and guided you
Where your boat had docked
From whom you had asked for a panacea for your pain
The one who did not visit your temple
It was you only
It was you only