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A small ring of light,
the soft glow of flame
in the midst of pure darkness—
all that I strive to be,
dazzling and golden,
against the mess I can’t deny—
sheer, undiluted slog
pushed away,
out of sight
and out of mind
as I gaze into the flame’s center—
a small child—mesmerized,
dazed, confused,
lost in the world’s dichotomy views—
seeking truth, shades of gray
buried far beneath the surface,
obscured by false perceptions—
but who am I to judge the fate,
to look between,
to sort, to debate?
With only a glimpse
into this swirling fog,
so little experience beneath my belt,
what gives me the right
to act above myself?
 Butterzworth · Mon Apr 18, 2011 @ 09:50pm · 0 Comments |
