Within existence we all, for now, are lost.
Placed amidst chasm so deep to be din-free.
And no solitaire, no matter how it scintillates, may purchase scaling traction.
It's known family may never be stepped upon
And family we are all.
But as autumn's floor can be but mulch, we too ever decay.
Until, with the free will of winded dust, without consciousness of other,
We swell to high points.
Family is forgotten
And we stand, still only sand grains from bottom.
Yet some would think they see better,
Head and shoulders above.
Look, their legs are all the shorter.
They see more but run less and grasp to lower alcove
So be fearless, and nameless and enter the headless earth crowd.
See we are but a speck within reality's eye of entirety.
And accept our heights are pointless.
As height's of the walls are sightless.
Floods will come, if we are abreast of luck; us warriors of like.
Until chasm's floor is unified in uniforms of ponds
And, drop to drop, bottom rises sinking the too frail to swim,
But floating buoyants, belly up, as the living dead fish of our sea.
I see this, a soul-expensive escape, as a catastrophe of aid.
This, as our willing step with deaths for each made.
Whether top's side is of flat desert, of plateaus without gradient.
Or valley, as basin to a bowl, of kings;
The less of stature to mountain's of gods and we can clamber as we sing.
Songs of those drowned souls,
Of chokes and bubbles and breaths not taken.
This, the price of hand's holds skipped.
For the climb from pit is achievable,
If of patience by others owned.
And fingers of strength not human.
But choice is not the king's second son's
And we do with what we are given.
To scale to a higher fidelity,
And grasp, at once, all intellect's facets and hold to all it's niches.
Both the price and the climb perch still too steep for our time though.
So waiting, in the darkness, I weep.
Watching countless stars pass us by, so slow.
