I sit upon old roof tops that have been devoured by a human hunger for concrete and iron.
The mountains are now partial, hidden in the mists of construction.
Open space is not a natural familiarity to my generation, unlike the elements of isolation and despair.
Natural green seems pretty to my eyes but I struggle to understand why.
Is grey not the natural colour of the sky?
I ask myself, since the mind is pleased why does the heart cry?
Is it not the norm to concern ourselves with beauty, or to cheat and lie?
Is there any value to the world I have been offered, once I die?
So tell me friend, neighbour, parent, Grandparent, priest, lover, dearest Godfather; what is the point to my existence?
Is it to taste every fruit from every tree; to see all there is to see and be the best I can be?
If so, how can the blind live happy and how can one incarcerated, be free?
My father said, son, if anything, salvage everything, in every memory; only this will be kept in eternity.
My priest said son, a real man, is one strong enough to be humble and repent.
My mother says, son, never forget, to be kind, sincere and decent.
These are the three secrets, I am told, to gracefully growing old.
But my friend, lover, child, son or daughter, the world is wild and it is hard to progress righteously, as we scold ourselves and others mindlessly; slaughtering ethics, as faithless heretics.
The knowledge and accomplishment I now have to pass on, is only a drop in a vast ocean.
First we are born; live a short while and then we are gone.
We act as if this cycle is an endless loop; though it is not long.
The chance to prosper for the soul is forgone, in every moment; remember you don’t own it!
I arrived in the cold early hours of December, so we celebrate to remember.
Unknown is the day I will leave and yet that is the day I shall be set free; so celebrate this victory, in my memory.
My greatest achievement will be if this day is one of clarity; leaving behind love and harmony.
I am tired of social sanity and seek a way out of the labyrinth.
I give my broken compass to the guidance of divine hands as I walk away from man and sit on the metaphor of clouds; proud I float in prayer, holding firmly upon my maker.
Material captivity is a war zone in which we battle for salvation; for freedom a test.
This, my child, is life and death.