Walking in the bandit's orchard one might ask
is this really all that strange?
Are we only wearing masks?
But the question arising to be seen is not within ourselves.
It only lives in others, and in others it shall dwell
This fantasy eludes us, yet we follow it till death
And this fantastical journey we'll follow,
follow until our final breath.
The lands in which we wallow are tormented with this wish,
and the people who live here are only thriving off the fish.
It's December in September and Winter in July
We'll never know what our lives hold,
so until then we'll only lie.
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 12:08 AM UTC
Walking in the bandit's orchard one might ask
is this really all that strange?
Are we only wearing masks?
But the question arising to be seen is not within ourselves.
It only lives in others, and in others it shall dwell
This fantasy eludes us, yet we follow it till death
And this fantastical journey we'll follow,
follow until our final breath.
The lands in which we wallow are tormented with this wish,
and the people who live here are only thriving off the fish.
It's December in September and Winter in July
We'll never know what our lives hold,
so until then we'll only lie.
Request permission to use this poem