She sits upon the roots
of the wise oak tree.

"Tell me, what must I do?" she asks hopefully.

"I cannot answer your query, for I do not know what you should do,
but I know someone who could help you." the oak responds.

"Well, who?"

"The Universe."

A bridge of wood and rope
above a canyon filled with water
waits to be crossed.

A fathomless pit under you,
a glorious destination across.
Shall you cross,
or shall you stay?

You will only accept my words
if I am on my knees, inferior,
while you stand on your feet, superior,
looking down upon me.

Welcome to the home of a narcissist,
extravagance not unheard of,
especially
when it comes to the mask
of your host.

You speak only words of pessimism,
a clear mind of prosperity
and optimism
unfamiliar to you.