Burdens to be taken up.
Drinking poison from the cup.
Setting of this life’s fiction.
Ruthless in its depiction.
All ways through leading to this.
Interspersed with bouts of bliss.
Joy and bliss serve to define,
Pain conceived within the mind.
In this tale, we always lose.
Matters not which way we choose.
Tragic feature of this fight.
What it means to be finite.
If that wasn’t hard enough,
Malice vaulted from the ruff.
This, a place in which we stand.
This, a face of life at hand.
In the midst of thoughts obsess,
We’re seeking ways to redress.
Yearning for a sense of peace.
Asking why, not in the least.
If some reasons were dispensed,
Then the pain would make some sense.
Being happy, sometimes smile,
Or something more worthwhile.
Reason’s fiction of the mind.
Where dilemmas are defined.
These are all just a story.
Tools to sort pain and glory.
Helps in part to get us through.
None of it is really true.
For some truth, it’s further back.
‘Fore the age of fear and lack.
How it’s broken, how to mend,
Perhaps revealed before we end?
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