I find myself repeating the verses,
the tones of hope, and embodiments
of kindness; the surreality of freedom,
and reverence.
I find myself, hoping to go back;
though I regret not my growth nor
bending wakes which have aroused
upon the grieving dismissal
of the elements I cursed
over the sake of the intellect.
I rewind, reform, and inform myself;
“these biddings are none but illusions,
ignorance, bewildered by a tragic coat
of happiness”, yet that blinding
world was much more comforting
that my currents misconceptions - the real ones,
which I have never succeeded to eradicate:
the demons.
Were I in the guiding of a celestial mentor,
would it make a difference?
Or would this guardian unveil me as
I proudly did so myself?
I do not wish for a tone,
I do not wish for a course,
I do not wish to the frightening of my curse;
nor a god.
Yet, in these precious and tumbling days,
I find myself praying.
I pray for nothing other than the essence
that left along with these figures.
The child I abandoned in my search
for reason.
I find myself reciting words I never could
have captured, and actions
I never would have wished to perform.
But it is not the words nor actions which
engrave our being - it is our soul.
Mine is hidden.
Conceptual yet senseless.
I find myself singing
the words which used to fill
the ambience with glow
and truth.
But nothing comes of it,
other than my need to recapture
my previous being, while
tangling on to my current presence
and gladfull knowledge.
Though sadness is cause,
I pay no heed towards commotion,
**for I find myself
finding a reason.**