It’s within the boundary, it’s within the limit.
It’s the being trapped and finding beauty in it.
It’s a certain thriving, in spite of the pain.
It’s in the feeble slave, who finds a way to reign.
The words are falling short, the life is lacking time.
The champions of struggle, the cavalries of rhyme!
And you. Of man. Who’s falling on the knife.
Why do you seek such trouble, and head toward the strife?
Your pain, it seemed to me, was something that you chose.
Your suffering’s a symphony, artfully composed.
Why my mister man, did you do such a thing?
What would be the end, you thought that it would bring?
“There’s no end to suffering, that – is the point.
We all have oppressors, which – would you anoint?
The one with the hate and lust for your demise?
Or one who makes you better and helps you realize?
My self-chosen pain is impossible to stifle.
But if I endure myself, the rest is but a trifle.
So I choose my own pain, the hardest I can find.
Then suffering becomes a verse in my mind.”
A symphony of suffering, the poetry of pain,
A take-ing away yielding, nothing but a gain.
© 2020 TheRememberings Ltd.