Closed.
Open book, with ink and pen.
We look inside our troubled mind,
without intent to seek and find,
to justly remember all in kind;
The tale we mark, of sorrow’s end.
Waves of emotion, to and fro.
Carry us to the things unseen,
blades of memory, long and keen,
slicing us deep, stark, and clean;
A ready chaos, stout and slow.
Oh despair! We are not free!
Across our ocean far and wide,
and through another great divide,
free of wake and earthly chide;
escape we’ve found, but couldn’t flee.
The tortoise teaches with his shell.
Look out from in, to all around,
at others close and all abound,
envy of those so free, so sound;
Inward we conquer chaotic hell.
Carefully, we build our wall.
Immune from anger, defeat, and pain;
perched atop righteous disdain,
why can’t life just be so plain?
None shall pass! …Or we may fall.
So dons the mask of wanton miss.
Play our cards of love and hate,
jaded views, our deluded state,
and unto this we celebrate;
We understand our phony bliss.
Consuming battles of ego ensue.
Deserv-ed deliverance out of reach,
atonement life has yet to teach,
conceit and pride, façades to breach;
Now perhaps, we’ve paid our due.
Again, the struggle to stay composed.
Experience lends a helping hand,
guides us through this strange new land,
it’s wisdom worth a grain of sand.
This tale complete; a book, closed.
-=Nam/D. E. Wilson
2004.02.09
2004.02.27 –Final.
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