Potential

To accept the heroic
and individual
in oneself.

To express
and experience the uniqueness
of this imagination to the edges
of its own possibility.

And to feel
the struggle and the strain
and the doubt.

Because I bring it on myself.

I bring it on myself.

How else can I own it?
How else can it belong to me?

The crimson seeds sown upon battlefields,
or trees now palisades
to keep the planters alive
were not sacrifices I needed to bear, to understand
How much a burden...
How much a strain...

Did you fight for freedom?

That there more kindness in the youth
who embraces sight
that the old can
no longer see

What a mess....

White clouds riding upon the winds,
may only give shape,
to the one that can see through
these voices that sing mimicry,
and be precious only to those that can paint
against blank skies.

I look upon the eyes of those that aren't my enemy
And quiet respect for the struggle they endure
I wish I could free them from the hands that have them chasing,
laurel leaves they already hold.

Though criminal as that may be,
the worse crime is to deny
thee, thee

I will make them see
I will make them see

There's nothing more precious
than the dying light that is
thee