To Listen & Say Nothing
You insist that we were meant to be born this way, something divine had it all in store.
I suppose that your character was sketched within lines
that connect the fortune you comprise with all the health that you possess.
In a lavish nest, so tightly knit.
Pronounce your gratitude on knees turned black and blue.
Hark the angelic choir.
And if I told you right now, not all was in your reach, you just wouldn't know what to think.
Oceans away, a child contends for a better chance.
(And if I told you, young son, about a place we can go,
where there's nothing you can think of that you aren't aloud to speak of, you wouldn't know what to think.)
How are you so sure that all of this was made with hands that sculpted you and laid your path?
What an incandescent light to have fall into your lap.
What about the holes? They're swallowing the overmatched.
Plight cascades down circumstance.
I'll never see through this mess.
We've one foot left on a balancing beam in a teetering scene too grand for our heads to collect.
Masses beneath engulf the canon into pits of desperate attempts to unearth the truth,
the reasons not meant to comprehend.
And we're fooled to think that we are more than ignorant at best.
Our backs were made stiff while our stomachs remain buoyant.
Are we to lay down and become paths for all the rest?
The only thing wrong here is believing that we are right.