Double-Edge Sword Part 2 The Fragile Balance
So is it good or is it bad, this endless, driving ache?
It is the hand that gives, and the very hand that takes.
Good, when it’s the progress that helps a nation rise,
Bad, when it’s the envy that looks with hungry eyes.
With food, "more" is the scent of bread, the warmth upon the tongue,
A shield from gnawing hunger, for both the old and young.
But excess is a poison, a weight upon the frame,
Where flavor turns to ashes, and comfort turns to shame.
With water, "more" can make the barren desert bloom,
A splash of cooling silver that banishes the gloom.
Yet raging floods can follow, a torrent thick with mud,
A reminder of the ruin held in nature's hand.
With clothing, "more" brings dignity, a shield from biting frost,
The feel of wool and cotton, no longer feeling lost.
But vanity can claim it, a closet stuffed with tags,
The weight of unworn fabrics in heaping, plastic bags.
With shelter, "more" is safety, a haven from the night,
The scent of burning firewood, a warm and steady light.
But driven by the wanting, a marble palace stands,
A fortress of isolation, built on a lonely plan.
In the end, we weigh the balance, in the fading of the light,
Between the empty surplus and the scarcity of night.
For "less" can be a freedom, a shedding of the weight,
Of all the gilded cages we build before it is too late.
The wisdom isn't knowing, but in the daily quest,
To find that quiet center, and put it to the test.
For in that fragile balance, a richer truth is found,
Than all the noise we strive for, on this ever-turning ground.
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