The Journey (52/ 2)

With one hand I can count my roots.
What have I left? Who is right?
It seems day’s dressed as night
Isn’t the sun meant to be, The Christ?
Like an atheist crusade in Saudia Arabia, a cloud switched off the light
Where am I going?

If every paths been beaten, by walking them, am I adding to the torture?
These taut virtues taste like battery acid
It burns to speak in tongues in the temple of my thoughts.
So I make melodies from metatarsals and meditations
Striding alongside the reservoir of motivations
I bear my cross along side man made war
To weigh stone cold silences mistaken for peace
My ears swallow to make a sum of my failures
Where am I going?

From the mourning comes englightening
If hades is broad statements, paradise seems narrow minded
I drink the colours from the sky and define me.
Is it called insight when you’re blinded?
I know, If I turn left, I’ll find right again,
I know I’ll find my fight just when I write without aversion
Without purpose, two feats don’t make a legend
It says walk with me

Sure as some steps forward feel like blessings full of curses
Perseverance is more than a purse of verses
Sometimes I want to turn every cyclist into the Icarus of the Trent and Mersey
Disperse them to permanent immersion with a note that says, Today you received mercy
Yet smiles and saluations from strangers dispense these urges
The grass is only greener when my circuits start e-merging
Although I stumble dividing colour because this trip it seems so purple
I AM Going
To work

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