Freedom, the secretive and conclusive gesture,
that life has bread in the either, echoing with it
in the air, perhaps it’s greater than love to the
poets. It is all that above, freedom is, or it does
not exist. There’s a scent to it, as our hands
naturally know how it feels, to every attempt to
grasp upon and hold. Only in moments of death,
perhaps as we let go the life we had just lead,
we can finally experience it, providing better
ecstasy than any illumination. I had always for
something, I could never touch. Poetry cannot
constantly be split into dreams and reality.
For I have no-idea how the soul stays sane,
living in this duality. For me, it’s useless being
alive, if one is not the path of personal revelation,
whether that’s in love of thy soulmate, or just
the transcendence of one’s illumination. But the
saddest thing is, is not whether we can reach it
before death, it’s that those rare people who do,
get frowned upon, be called mad, and turned
away into exile, by the layman's-mundane ignorance.
Finally breathing through the wind, as my body
dives into the bath of Muses below, where I’m
blessed with martyrdom, which is the highest any
human can achieve. It isn’t really true, just because
you witnessed a person die for it. Even though
my life was a discovery of things, worth dying for
like my love for my soulmate.  
(Why be master, when one can be king?)
- Knowledge Variable