Striving to Ascend

Upwards we strive, sweeping blunders aside.

Inside hosts the rings that demarcate time.

Nothing but bands of lines.

Roots cling to the ground.

Anchoring the emerging sprouts until they can finally stand.

The moving winds serve a disruptor to nature’s plan.

Aspiring for ascension to the sky sustains the plant’s continual drive to climb.

Embracing an Escape?

To forget and become blind, becoming lost in the minutiae of time.

Let us look back, once more, and rewind – but what for?

What is it we hope to find this time, a transformational revelation?

An insight that transcends the temporal and guides, like the North Star, but in the realm of the eternal – were ever such a flash of clarity to strike across our soul, would the onus not still be on us to transform our lives?

Does the guiding direction of a compass eliminate the arduousness of the journey?

Is it not still our bones, muscles, sinews, and resolve that must work in coordination with principles above to propel us toward its designated destination?

Contemplation of the Rain

Let the dams be damned and ameliorate this famined land.

Upon what hills will you take a stand; amidst what turmoil will your integrity begin to disband?

Our resolve weakens, our countenance grays, yet a force continues to uphold our inner constitution. The nature of numbness raises doubts about whether it’s life or us that we should be praying about.

Unsure, we forget to let it out; no words pierce the silence, no vibrations ripple through the air.

We aren’t even sure how much it is that we truly care. We’ve moved passed the point of wanting to rip out our hair and rather have begun to embrace the catatonic stare.

Becoming increasingly less aware of what our left-hand does as we observe the ramifications of having lived a one-sided life for so long, dependent and trusting only of the right:

What good are either of these sides anymore? Where is the animosity of division when everyone’s poor? Rather, life’s questions confront us with more intensity than they did before, pestering us to decide some sort of answer to the question: “What is life for?”

Yet, no answers come; only noting how keenly one has become of observing the rising sun and how quickly it seems to run back into the shadows from whence it comes.

A repetition set for an undetermined amount of iterations – the next question becomes: “What have I done?”