This world claims equity, yet finds equivocal,
With hollowed merits, parched and spread about.
I hear their swaddled groans, a grit reciprocal,
Tracing the shadows of a lingering doubt.
I weigh the lessons etched in dusty books,
Against the jagged truths that we have known;
The deeper that the searching spirit looks,
The more I see how much we’ve outgrown.
The narrow halls of life converge to bind,
Where time and space in shadows are dissolved.
A singular vision, drifting and confined,
Within a soul by solitude evolved.
A fractured glass, a self set far apart,
To watch the play from some cold, distant shelf;
With low intent and resistance in the heart,
A stranger to the world, and to the self.
We name the optics "real"—those sights we’re forced to see,
To anchor what we witness in a felt reality.
Yet "one" remains a statue, eyes fixed on empty space,
Locked within the struggle of a phantom-valued race.
Between the current status and the potential yet to bloom,
One waits for opportunity to light the quiet room.
Will vision seize the moment and let the value fly?
Or will it turn to impotence as sterile years go by?
For if the "one" stays hollow, lost in dull jejunity,
The spark of what could be, dissolves for all eternity!
