Why do we seek the place of solitude?
Is it because we disdain?
From and for the burden,
Of the living?
After all, life is said to be,
The thing most critical,
Most crucial;
A meaningful,
Pursuit
Of something,
Worthwhile?
And yet we cower,
In the shadows.
Stray away from opportune,
Moments.
To be called,
True.
Beauty it seems,
Both a Godsend and a Curse,
Yet a full sense,
Of appreciation,
Only,
When it’s gone.
Fear is our greatest enemy.
The only thing,
Standing,
In our way,
From what we truly - desire.
Beauty found,
Only once,
We stray from the known,
Of limitation.
Where as in death,
A subtle reminder,
Of all the reasons,
Why?
We must keep on living?
The stories that must lie,
Beneath the ground,
A tireless waste,
Of the gift they call life.
A collection of the trivial,
Pointless;
Beneath the soil,
Buried,
Six feet under.
If only we’d chosen,
Wisely;
Paid yield,
To the signs.
The clarity of the eye.
Then it seems that all,
That lay before us now,
Would be more,
Than what amounts,
To absolute,
Nothing.
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