Misty Home
In this world I call home,
The misty mountain drones.
And through the fog,
Is how we see.
Some see shapes, ideas and colours.
Others see monsters, and shadows that cluster.
Yet none are willing to admit,
How the mist blinds them so.
Yet when one clears from the fires,
Free from self damnation.
We look to the sky,
With nothing but pure intentions.
Yet in this world, what should be pure,
We call ‘good’ to disguise,
Nothing but an empty word.
Only some see through.
All I know is my path will remain.
Not paved with guns,
Because it's a ‘right.’
That saying needs to take flight.
For guns,
My dear friends,
Are truly weak.
They allow one to hide,
To feel power in their life.
Because now,
It’s so easy to take.
True power is to say
I’m done.
I’m done giving into the fear and paranoia,
That we create and nurture.
Done pretending that I’ll be safer,
In the ignorance we foster.
If I’m to die, I’ll accept that, true.
After all in the world we love,
Life is truly askew.
When I’m free,
From this misty mountain home, I’ll look back.
See the fire for what it is.
As a cloud, a new mushroom begins.
Yet here we’ll remain,
Trapped in routine.
And it’s when we push forward,
That we’ll be truly free.