Besiege thy reasons for they don’t hold one’s life;
dried figs sweeten winter’s icy mouth, but miss
summer sun burns in fruity melted hearts that strife
for their pith to be lost in kisses of bees.
Doest thou know how reasons break too even
under heavy weight? Oh, that inner voice, the demon
of crumbled ever departed expectations,
for thou doest cut free will with mind’s limitations;
Doest thou grow too old with burden of lost times
defended by long, dark, cold soul mantels
of protocols, plans, arguments, and norms
written with an iron finger on hiked stones?
Doest thou feel the slingshot shattering weary,
halting will? A pouring sap of summer dew?
It’s time to break holds, white walls of a theory;
room with one window and too stubborn point of view.

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