I walk up to that shelf
With hundreds of excerpts,
That comes from the never-ending cycle
That we call “life”.
Or is life an illusion?
A thing that someone had wrote down
And told us which that person
Assumed to be true?
Those are questions #1-2,
Those cross my thoughts.
I then reach, seize, and pull one down
Flipping through those ink-covered pages,
Trying desperately to find an answer
That can be possibly hidden from view.
But then ink becomes letters,
And letters become words,
Which then become sentences or phrases?
Those come from different worlds.
O, you great Musketeers,
How I long to reach that motto,
“All for one and one for all”.
But what does this mean to me?
Should I try to help a world?
Which ignores its inner problems?
And greedily consumes more and more
Of what little things this world can give?
This is question #3.
Poetry, suffering, adventures that can’t be seen
Are lurking inside everything that can be read,
But is reading a form of segregation?
Because reading doesn’t necessarily exclude
Other forms of art.
But then ink becomes letters,
And letters become words,
Which then become sentences or phrases?
Those come from different worlds.
As the pages flip
Towards the very end,
Is this where me life
Shall tend to go?
Just some dust-covered
Time-stained piece of “life”?
That piece didn’t satisfy me
Because only advices were given,
But when will a purpose be shown?
All of these questions must be answered
But not by a book.
But then ink becomes letters,
And letters become words,
Which then become sentences or phrases?
Those come from different worlds.
