If only truth could whisper through the silence. To guide the absent thoughts of common man. Who sounds a parrot’s cry in stark defiance,
At any question of conviction or of chance.
This question is a mind’s eye looking upward, And asking why a faith must writhe and sting, A translation, to the language of the structured, Or judging God and finches as they sing.
A demand to see the worker in the shadows, Who paints a thousand lives at his desire.
Or the thought that maybe nothing guides the heavens; That the seller is the user, and the buyer.
It killed the cat, they say, in sworn contention. You’ll never find an answer while you live.
But a beauty lies in calm anticipation
Of the day you’ll have one valid thought to give
There is no one offender on this elegance of earth, Who holds the guilt of doubting what he sees,
So to you, the God, Enigma, I submit, My chin is up, but I am on my knees.