The Path Closed to No One
Where do we go when dreams slip away from us? We melt into density.
The clock paces our viscous flow of descent. Or Ascent. The illusion of choice is the poison we pick from. And we pick it from the same tree. How odd.
Dinner tables hold empty seats, and yet plates are eaten. Sustenance cannot give weight to a trapped soul. How restrained hogs would be if they knew the purpose of their meals.
How wild are our virtues that we have replaced the portrait of Dorian Gray with a mirror. There are no lies in our reflection. The soul begs to be released. Captors are we, whipping ourselves with senseless distraction to arouse senses.
A gift is life. Ribboned with death.
What does a clock mean to us? Other than a keeper of sanity. Never have we been more strangled than by the hands of a clock. What sort of quarrel does it have that we must wrestle with the weight of its existence?
What must we do when the sun’s warmth is only a memory? It touches still, but it is different now. What joy is dancing when we rather float on water? What happiness do we offer when it is so translucent? What journey can be undertaken to provoke splendor? The locomotion of a day is fuzzy and properly insignificant.
Quietness purveys more life than things acting lively.
How long a vacation until the spell rebinds us? What antidotes exist amidst its venom? Our search to cure the drag of life spreads it more greatly.
A carcass holds peace better than a monk. A mind usurped by the path to salvation is entirely too much effort. The path to salvation, to freedom, is any one of our veins.
Life is cruel when it has persuaded away the personal rite to end it. It is a path freely open. Closed to no one. In its many forms, its walk is swift. A mind is sooner a slave than an unbound traveler.
A pilgrimage on the path closed to no one holds the hands of those walking alongside it.
Thank you so very much for reading. Your time really means everything to me. I am leaving you a link to the writing I made just before this one, hope you have time someday.
autumn comes to Die. a poem made listening to space synth | by halfcaff | May, 2024 | Medium
Bye for now (:
Steven
