The Riddle of Us
To be able to write
Is something of a pleasure.
Satisfying to oneself and
hopefully pleasing to others.
Being free to make a stand.
Freeing the mind of it's prison bars.
The iron bar of guilt.
The iron bar of passion.
The one of love. The one of propriety.
Even the iron bar of freedom itself.
All arranged across the
out look of our lives.
For if we had freedom
of the absolute kind.
What would there be
To challenge the mind?
To excel it. Open it.
That is not to say we should
be clasped in irons for all time.
Imagine spending an age from woods
to city and back again.
Chained so close to the water fall
of knowledge yet be unable to taste it.
Only able to yearn yet remain ignorant.
Our writings are the footnotes
Of our life stories. The expression
of our innermost feelings.
Or of our wanting comprehension
of what we do not understand.
Or, indeed, not care to know.
Or what we'd like to think that we
care not to know. But our human nature...
It Fights us. And easily defeats us.
Sometimes being defeated can
benefit us more. Our being is the sand
On the shore of our experience.
And we can try and shape it how we please,
But experience and event
may well wash it all way and shape it
as to their specification.
No amount of frustrated weeping
will persuade them different.
So we can do none,
But write and scrawl and scribble.
To vent our frustration and wonder
At the incessant riddle
That is us.
Copyright © Leander Darwin | Year Posted 2009
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