Oh, to have a story to tell.
To leave the breast to throb and swell
With longing for another world
Of hells, and wonders, and all which is
Found not in lives too long and short
There was a time in whence, thought I,
That danger’s might must be the
Cure to my fatigue.
And perhaps it is to you;
But it isn’t, not to me.
It must be this dreaded blight
Of a human mind inside of me,
But it is not the strike of steel
Nor the mysteries of ingenuity
That leave me lying,
Clinging to the nothingness
For something to have the day I die.
No, it is raw:
The love, the wonder, the escape from reality,
the prison which binds us all,
With as of yet only one known key.
The mind alone is able to break free,
And honor those with the capacity
To properly withdraw the creativity
Needed to set us lesser ones loose
And to give us reason to be.
And pity those who cannot breathe
The air they do not know they cannot see,
Who cannot comprehend the weight
Of an unforgettable s