What is a man but this?
A broken and dissembled thing,
Working forever to repair himself,
Trying without success to bring,
Conclusion to his worries and his strife. A clock maker, cursed to search,
Always for that hidden piece of grit,
That lies behind some bearing,
Or some cog. Corrupting time,
And the smooth passage,
Of his life.
Great men have questioned,
And not found, an answer,
To man’s greatest need.
How to move forward,  living blessed,
Without the serpent venom,
Of our yesterdays, poisoning our joy,
Sapping our little strength.
For though our past, we cannot change,
Locked as it is beyond our grasp,
It still can haunt our hopes, our dreams.
Weaving it’s dark and dismal fingers,
Through our joy, dragging us back,
To who we were, and who we are no more.
Would that the past would let me be,
And so allow me to create,
Some bright tomorrow, filled with light,
Rather than force this soul most tired,
Constantly to wish for quiet grace,
And dignity within a gentle grave.
Where past no more confuses future.
Where running ends, where peace is found,
Released. Atom by atom, back into,
The universal heart beat, there,
To try again.
Oh, let me not again come back as man,
To fix the problems of this life again.
I am too tired, too old, too spent,
Trying to find the other half of me,
Divided by the Thunderer’s hand,
Each time I glimpse him,
Only then to see him to slip away.
Yet he is worth, the journey and the pain.
And so, poor Pilgrim, commit to follow still,
Through all the realms and reaches of this world,
And I will meet the past and future too.
With all the courage that my spirit still,
Can muster till,
Earth is no more, and the last petal falls,
From the last tree to bloom within this world.



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