You cannot see the vine that twists and age,
Clinging on to the oak tree,
It nurtures us,
And we constrict its arms.
We do not let go,
For in letting go,
We fall,
We become no more than threads of the dead.
We are the vine,
And life, the oak tree,
Our nourishment, from nature
Yet greed engulfs us,
And we die the deaths of our fathers.
I am no man,
for I am still child,
And simple things entice me,
They echo through my core,
Philosophy, Science, and Art,
They speak to me,
And I,
Lowly as a child of my own,
Condemned by the worlds suffocating limbs,
I seek out truth,
And the truth must be set free