Wisdom, like a cell, when the blind lead the way,
You’re the passenger in a runaway.
The road twists left, your hands feel bound,
A restless wheel pulling, never sound.
Death whispers, “Enough, one day you’ll know,”
Your faith’s a secret kept hidden below,
A pull like desire, a long slow burn,
As life’s heavy gears grind and turn.
Stuck in a box, in a race with no lane,
Trapped in the chase, both feet in the chains.
“Anger’s default,” they write in the sand—
Love’s learned slow, with a steady hand.
Life’s echoes, the humdrum we repeat,
You cast and wait, watching time deplete.
If there’s meaning, put your hands up high,
But can you hold it, or will it pass by?
Eyes that lock in thought-filled cages,
Love written down in yellowed pages,
The mirror cracks, the self takes flight,
In the silence that slips from night to light.
This isn’t a life; it’s a crafted line,
This isn’t revolt, it’s the lull of copywriting.
Stoic to tears, breaking free then bound,
Wrestling meaning from the empty sound.
The concrete’s heat, the grass so cool,
The future fades like a fading jewel.
Yet somewhere in these loops and wires,
Is a spark that never tires.