Oh how great is the Burden laid upon us as poets,
while we must walk where others do not dare,
to fill our cup and drink from secret Wells
whose Waters burn the mind.
We behold the World unmasked,
and bear the Vision though it bow our shoulders low,
heavy hangs this weight on the soul.
Dare to think.
Dare to dream.
Dare to see the Between.
For we were not made to praise the Show,
nor count the painted Masks of Men,
but to descend beneath the Skin of Things,
and search the Roots that feed the Tree.
Dare to find what lies below.
We cannot see the Blossom only,
for our eyes are drawn to the dark Earth from whence it rose.
We cannot see the Crown alone,
for we behold the Wound beneath the Gold.
We cannot look upon the Shadow
without seeking the Eternal Fire that cast it.
This is our Burden.
To see what others will not see.
To hear what others will not hear.
To carry the Cry of hidden Things
through unseen chaos deafened by their own Noise.
For every Vision is a Weight,
and every Truth a Stone,
and we who gather them
must bear their Mountain.
Yet still we labour.
Through the Caverns of Meaning we wander,
with Lamps stolen from Eternity,
seeking the secret Rivers beneath this place,
that we may know the World and not the facades.
Dare to think.
Dare to dream.
Dare to see the Between.
For blessed and terrible is this Calling,
to behold Depth where others behold Surface,
to find Infinity within a Grain of Sand,
and return bearing Fragments of Heaven
though their Fire should scorch our hands.