Two Means to an End
A man walks a path.
He chooses his pace.
He chooses of which his attention may be diverted upon.
There are two parallel sides that split this singular path.
There is the paved road, illuminated by man-made torches.
And then there is the jungle.
The jungle is moonlit, and thus one may only see where they are in that very moment.
The jungle is unpredictable, but fortified with life and the beautiful oddities that accompany this.
All walk this same path.
At the very end of this path, regardless of which side one may take their stroll, their lies a fence.
A flimsy, yet sturdy fence which reads, “The End”.
However, beyond this fence is more, endless jungle, but the moonlight and man-made torches may only breach but the steps of this fence.
A beautiful shroud of angel breath mist lies ahead.
Only may breath surpass and venture beyond the fence, just as it should be.
Just as it always has been, and always will be.
There is no path that may lead around this fence.
Thus one may sit around, waiting, or one may explore the jungle and the precious mysteries that lie astray from the man-made torches.
For the flame will only push the jungle further and further from he who holds the torch.
The Root of it All
Seasons change, but does the Earth?
Opinions change, but does the subject?
People change, but do our souls?
And thus why does my backyard seem different than yesterday?
Seasons may change, but the world’s matter remains constant
Subjects remain the same, but new experience pardons diversion
Souls are rooted eternally, regardless of the organic mind’s growth
Strange, my backyard only seemed different for I changed my choice of spectacles
I wear a mask
A mask given to me
Like a right of passage, the mask is my inclusion
Inclusion in separatism
Inclusion in society’s vision
Without the mask we are told we are hiding
Told we will be found and beaten
Yet when I remove the mask, when no one is looking, I feel free and okay
I see flowers where there was soil
Rivers instead of puddles
So is this mask the truth?
Or rather a false promise
Eternity hides in the branches of trees
We merchant our lives in the hopes of a seed
But the tree has been planted
The mask plucks at its roots
Removal is the rain feeding the soil
I feel so captive here
Why am I behind this cage?
Because good sir, you spent your years welding the iron