Poetry / 1

I continue to enjoy the novel conundrum of naive. Most know of those tendencies of acknowledging unrealistic realisms, but they continue walking along, accepting them because they simply don’t want their minds to fall apart, and for the sake of comfort, fail. The gears turn, the fire burns, and the man who sees that fact of a slipping principle is the man who dies first. May he rest in peace. Grant him the prosperity from his friends and enemies alike that he will be remembered for what he knew.

Grant him the beautiful thought that now, a simple headstone in the fulfillment of ‘is’ and ‘is not’, he will hold the same fate of a tree. Existing only because he is, and because he is tangible. Grant him the manifestation of longevity, however because his words are like the clouds, moving along, dissipating in the heat of brutality, but once again, rising into the hearts of nobles in the stern passion of nobility.

I love him, he has made me strong, and though, like the tree, he only exists because he is, he does not because neither do we.

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