Does bird feel tortured when she’s made to fly?
So why do we stay so uncertain still?
Lost in the endless search until we die,
So out of touch with remnants of our Will.
Truth is not frail, it is our greatest gift –
Would you exchange it for a pile of dust?
For dreams of pain and goals that always shift,
For hopes of gain, when all you gain is rust?
“Uncertain of one’s path” – I’d say: “Insane!”
Caught in such sleep where light remains unseen,
Dreaming of choosing between death and pain
While praying for forgiveness of no sin.