Vanity's Vanishing Act Or Pickles Everywhere

As I approach the staunch realization that we are the poisonous creatures Plaguing the very mother that nurtures our brittle and deplorable existence We cross our arms seeking the unexplained comfort we think we know Leaning back in the chair that coddles us with the rock and roll of its runners A reflection is formed of the way that this one used to view right and wrong I have spent my life surrounded by the clear shadows of enlightenment At least the wind who selfishly hid from sight gave itself away through feel The hindrances to get to where I am now have shown themselves to me They've shown themselves to me the split second I discontinued my search This moment interweaves itself with the loss of my instinctive will to live The pickle next to me is from across the country who lived a far different life But here we are stripped of our individuality all labeled together as one jar Not a beautiful cucumber from Northern Virginia, I'm now a jar of pickles I had to accept this in order to fully understand just what it was I unearthed The saline solution in which I now reside is the very reminder of my ignorance Once a formidable adversary in the witch hunt to expose frailty in the folly A frailty that can't hide the tips of its toes from the outskirts of my peripherals A shadow at the tale end of merging with another that is far, far superior And is gobbled up so quick, that one questions if the lesser was ever there The world does not revolve around where this jar travels on the spinning earth The earth is just the place where the stage is set for this jar to move around If I (we) drop and the glass casing providing our temporary safety fragments It is of no consequence, for I've lost my demand for your time and patience They're yours to keep, forgiveness is asked for wanting them in the first place Enlightenment is the realization that we are stick figures traced on thin paper And we just refuse to address the giant pair of scissors that follows us around We laugh to ourselves and say “you can't cut a stick figure out from the paper” My narrow recognition is as attenuated as the gaunt paper that I'm drawn on I watch in horror As the precision of the clippers removes me from all attachments I'm obsolete As I feather my way to the ground, subdued by the shackles of gravity As I (we) hit the ground the glass shatters, pickles everywhere