I stood too close. The angle lied.
A tiny statue, petrified,
Cast out a shadow, long and grand,
Across the corners of my land.
I wore no glasses, yet a lens
Of polished magic would commence
To feed a vision through the eye,
Where nerves and biological wires fly,
Past signals flashing in the skull,
To where the soul sits, deep and full.
A world of vast, immense devotion
Not some small, fleeting human emotion
Where jokes you whispered in the air
Sat heavier than a sermon’s prayer.
Maybe the shadow spoke the truth;
Maybe the blindness was my youth.
Admiration, in the night,
Is just a name for bad eyesight.
We are both human, bound to clay,
Walking a different moral framework.
And when you act on what you hold,
It leaves my outer climate cold.
The friction makes the world appear
Unjust, unfair, and locked in fear.
But these heavy, warring, bitter things
Are birds that fly on earthly wings;
They dwell right here, they rot in dust,
Where mortal iron turns to rust.
And in this narrow world below,
Life is too vast a thing to grow
To waste my short, remaining days
Scratching the surface of your ways.
For all we see, and all we seem,
Is but a dream within a dream.
One day the heavy eyelids break,
And everything will matter when we wake.
Until that morning, I design
A sweet defiance in the spine,
To find a joy in endless tasks
Beneath these temporary masks.
They say that happiness is free
A simple choice for you and me.
But there’s a paradox in the bone:
I choose to leave your knife alone,
I choose to stop the inward bleeding,
But can I force the joy I’m needing?
The brain can pick the grief it wears,
But happiness has higher stairs.
So if you carry grudges now,
Or sharpen blades to make me bow,
It is alright. The dirt can have it.
I will not feed a bitter habit.
You are no judge; you hold no scale,
And I am not your prisoner in a jail.
We stand beneath a higher ceiling,
Where Someone watches what we're feeling;
He sees the blade, He sees the side,
On everyone's behalf He died.
I hear the statue start to crack,
Shrinking to its actual stature back.
I do not hate you; you owe me naught,
For lessons cannot well be bought.
My eyes connect to brain and heart,
And feeling is the living part.
So carry knives, and carry blame—
I’ll carry the lesson, and forget the name.
2d ago
Jun 3, 2026 at 7:57 AM UTC
I stood too close. The angle lied.
A tiny statue, petrified,
Cast out a shadow, long and grand,
Across the corners of my land.
I wore no glasses, yet a lens
Of polished magic would commence
To feed a vision through the eye,
Where nerves and biological wires fly,
Past signals flashing in the skull,
To where the soul sits, deep and full.
A world of vast, immense devotion
Not some small, fleeting human emotion
Where jokes you whispered in the air
Sat heavier than a sermon’s prayer.
Maybe the shadow spoke the truth;
Maybe the blindness was my youth.
Admiration, in the night,
Is just a name for bad eyesight.
We are both human, bound to clay,
Walking a different moral framework.
And when you act on what you hold,
It leaves my outer climate cold.
The friction makes the world appear
Unjust, unfair, and locked in fear.
But these heavy, warring, bitter things
Are birds that fly on earthly wings;
They dwell right here, they rot in dust,
Where mortal iron turns to rust.
And in this narrow world below,
Life is too vast a thing to grow
To waste my short, remaining days
Scratching the surface of your ways.
For all we see, and all we seem,
Is but a dream within a dream.
One day the heavy eyelids break,
And everything will matter when we wake.
Until that morning, I design
A sweet defiance in the spine,
To find a joy in endless tasks
Beneath these temporary masks.
They say that happiness is free
A simple choice for you and me.
But there’s a paradox in the bone:
I choose to leave your knife alone,
I choose to stop the inward bleeding,
But can I force the joy I’m needing?
The brain can pick the grief it wears,
But happiness has higher stairs.
So if you carry grudges now,
Or sharpen blades to make me bow,
It is alright. The dirt can have it.
I will not feed a bitter habit.
You are no judge; you hold no scale,
And I am not your prisoner in a jail.
We stand beneath a higher ceiling,
Where Someone watches what we're feeling;
He sees the blade, He sees the side,
On everyone's behalf He died.
I hear the statue start to crack,
Shrinking to its actual stature back.
I do not hate you; you owe me naught,
For lessons cannot well be bought.
My eyes connect to brain and heart,
And feeling is the living part.
So carry knives, and carry blame—
I’ll carry the lesson, and forget the name.
I like the saying "Never meet your heroes"
