The Fragility of Longing
Though we walk many miles, we end where we start:
Lying mindless on the ground, still frightened of the dark.
Indifferent to the gentle breeze of a pleasant summer morning;
Impassive to the bitter sting of a frigid winter's first chill.
This life is not a journey, for there is no end in sight.
Engaged in eternal darkness with the phantoms of the night.
Plagued by endless torment, a lasting test of faith.
Enticed by savage disposition, and taken by the wraith.
Fate dictates remedies as we hopelessly transcribe,
Its essence, like a prophet, we attempt to imbibe.
Clinging onto some fleeting dream of the future
As we haul our accretion up the gradient;
Yet we cannot see, blinded by our stupor,
That glorious obscurity illuminating, so radiant.
The indomitable spirit of mankind
Subdued by the rapture of the mind;
Brazenly gazing out from the shore,
Longing, at once, to ascertain more,
For to live is to love; to love is to live:
No more can be said,
No more can be done.
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