Drawing upon my own wellspring,
finding my own colors,
I see so few determined to self-determine.
Where have the masters of old gone? The samurai? The geniuses?
They are still out there, but so few seek them, they seek not fame.
Too busy with their duties, too dedicated to their craft.
But the man who looks in will always be spat on from without,
inside is the gold, the witch, the devil, God.
And the outside will mirror the inside.
Because of hectic life,
we seek the peace of silence,
I seek the laziness of the front-porch or barbecue pit,
Where time is what creates, not man,
and my pride does not direct my action, nor does the pride of others,
I wonder sometimes, as a poor son of Adam, where I went astray,
and whether or not I try, I know that the alignment of myself and the rest of creation is the only narrow path that’s worth treading.
I know instantly when I am off it, but find it so hard to return.
It is when I seek results, is when I am most sure of failure,
and that flow is the goal, movement should be a circumambulation,
and it is so clear to me, that the one’s who truly know, would not care what certifications I have, because the evidence of character is always written in our every move.