Servant Of The Light

Winters slave

On the icy cusp of spring, all endure winters bitter despair, braced without extraneous regard.

What meager light warms barren limbs in each fleeting lull, unfolds thoughts of vitality, bathing imagined leaves; wisdom drawn exposed to perpetual ignorance, from the waters flowing beneath the visible, through the deepest roots, which strain at the bows from emotion, swayed upon the icy storm of inequitable life; strengthening or shattering every fiber to destruction.

Summer provisions dream contents the emaciated mind, while soulless mocking rustles upon the icy air, reviling the fallen champions in aspersed decay.

Winters quartermaster drains all bounty, a thieving smotherer of growth, withers then rots intellect, to a winter forest of putrid souls festering as barren husks, cold and bitter.

Hope lies in the rich compost of ancient fallen leaves, fruits bound and buried that so few absorb, yet all should weep for such truths release.

No more sovereign thought; blind worship of the vilest rancid soulless creatures.

No more sleeping in ignorant isolation, hiding in the multitude, a forest of mighty oaks, assured they are simple acorns.

No more buying sunshine and rain, renting the soil, chained to the earth and force fed greedy lies.

No more invented codes of deceit, no more title of superior rank, no more monopoly upon the earth, no more using others in contempt.

Thoughts blossom in infinite cycles, from heavy chains binding perceptions ignorant conformity, to reasons dawn and shackles fall.

All have a choice from the tree of experience; fruitless withering in perpetual winter chained to the icy master of ignorance, or the fruits of the spring feasting upon the tree of knowledge, with the promise of the glorious summer.