A Riddle to Interpret but not Solve
Whether rooted or buried,
Weathered truths amuse as charity
Towards the crude and the sharing,
In hopes of proving some clarity.
Yet it’s with this first link; a chain is born.
Forged and tempered by a speech,
Or foul and tampered with our reach,
It is still what is grown that comes away as fruit,
but not of the poisonous tree;
With Flourishing and budding flora,
hoping of whats to come we call fairly, sorta,
in pairings of tones from both of
the muttering and the daring,
From of all who wonder of these
latent seeds to be considered as
“of the unborn.”
But if by a birth that is to be controlled,
then a yield may become trodden,
Flattened and rotten, just as any fabrics lathered in hardships become tattered and spotted
until they are torn.
Left finally, truly forgotten
Then presumably silently and
Sworn to be compassionately
And delightfully alone.
Albeit, the same chance remains
without this touch of authority,
For be it where wonder may not dismiss,
And where judgement stops glaring,
an illusion of autonomy finds the disguise
Of a choice tending to a worth
Inherently unknown.
Where is it, i ask,
Where may two sides of the same coin
Argue upon their price?
Why may a currency ingrained with such a bickering inexplicable thought wage this necessity of war?
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