Choice is an allowance,
no privilege involved really,
little to do with societal merits,
beyond our soul bearing
What is found on the idiot box,
that bastion of fear and abandon,
the place we choose to believe
holds more value
than that which we hold at home.
That manipulation is true,
imagine if left alone, and rather
we pick up stone to hold in hand,
to feel the history of time,
beyond what is today a reliance.
I do walk the wood,
to escape the concrete oblivion,
so often that place of demise,
helps me forget,
while awash in elegance and song.
I once imagined a hamlet,
tucked in the dense forest while a river nearby,
carried the souls of the world,
just passing by,
and my fantasy belonged quite nearby.
If we could let go of opinion,
would our lives really matter,
in the greater scheme of things,
I mean would the pundits
with all their thunder even bother.
I do in time recall the beauty of rain,
so natural in a cleansing elegance,
a quiet remind,
we have another being,
draws our hopes and dreams.