Who knows better,
For, do I not allow my darkest secrets, to hold me to ransom.
Oh, the follies of one’s own strange ways.
there can be light, why then chose to ignore it
remaining in the shadows of, half a life.
Where memories oft’ recall, the darkest habits in each moment of time.
Short, is the allotted time, to capture that which is precious.
And so shall always be, consequences, retributions, delusions, and confusions.
However, are we not a species of creativity, in a world of choice
Where the cycle continues, no matter of, thoughts and dealings,
Such constant questioning, of the how, and why, the where, and when
precious time lost, in emotional upheaval, disturbed truths of reality,
wrong directions from, the ways of harmony.
Needs must, to rebuild, redirect open the inner being.
Truth is paramount, needs be, absolute.
Needs be served as authentic…. Not as a shadow of sensual basic indifference.
Tis but choice …. dark path, or bright, that of heart; of connection.
What is this heart of which I speak?
The unknown, far beyond the present, containing naught, but that of truth.
All, that needs be known, lives within,
'tis here awaits, the reality of choice.
That of freedom, for mind, body, and soul.
The inner self, which embraces the authenticity of being.
I, however, have not the answers for any other than, mine own being.
Who knows better?