Is it true that we cannot learn as we age
from the mistakes of our own lust?
No matter the hurt, we continue onward,
gazing upon life, yet not seeing our place;
only expecting to lead all whom we crushed
The pure spirit that we once were
has finally turned to dust;
before we search for ourselves, we cry
And though we are not insane,
we will soon be taught by those we trust
It is because why we cry
that we lose our sense of touch
The world around us is for the taking, yet
we only know of our own pain; but who
will teach just enough instead of too much?
What shadows live in remorse except
that which we cast as the judge?
It is the pain we are born into we cast off,
but the receptacle is always another man
who must suffer a baby’s eternal grudge