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Son Of Aurelius
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The Weary Wheel
The streamline will carry on
far beyond our lives.
The temple crumbles into dust.
Designed by action,
spinning slender threads
that weave between the walls,
now is the vestige
of a future far to come.
Running in the treads
of exercised experience with
the answers placed before us
by our own mistakes.
Mice in the lab
with minimal reaction
to greater woes and the
throes of our brethren before us.
The end seems ever imminent,
like a long announced instant
of a flash that wraps us up in dust
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and descends as fast as it arose.
Alas, this is just wanton hope.
Bans to stay the hands of men
from grasping high at desperate threads
that taunt them until they realize
they've got only each other to stand on.
Complacent is the age
in a place whose strength
is shaped by the anger of those
desperate for change,
but unable to make it.
Take a place
or remain drowning in the waves
of the greater.
We've limited our freedom and called it contraband.
Do not reach for me in faith, you'll be cut off at the hand.
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