Two paths of blood direct my eyes, seeming worlds apart.
In what way must my life convert and must I force my heart?
Is it better of man to spread false wings
and bring himself to bear
a life that less than freedom brings
and scars upon his soul he'll wear?
Or is it better to drown in white
and stain with every color
a life that blinds itself in light
and a presence that grows smaller?
No path have I on which to set my right and solid course,
doubtless one still I will tread. But be it with pride or with remorse?
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
Two paths of blood direct my eyes, seeming worlds apart.
In what way must my life convert and must I force my heart?
Is it better of man to spread false wings
and bring himself to bear
a life that less than freedom brings
and scars upon his soul he'll wear?
Or is it better to drown in white
and stain with every color
a life that blinds itself in light
and a presence that grows smaller?
No path have I on which to set my right and solid course,
doubtless one still I will tread. But be it with pride or with remorse?
I found this while perusing an external hard drive of mine. I stumbled upon a small cache of saved poems that I had written back in 2006 (that would put me in senior year of high school).
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