The Young Philosopher


United States
34° 16' 15.7368" N, 118° 36' 53.316" W

Must it be?
So it must
So all these flowers
turn to dust
these blades of green
will turn to brown
this toiled tree
burnt to the ground
Life means so little
and yet so much
Such short a time
so small a touch
does one human life
have upon the earth
yet a mass can inflict
either massive good
or massive hurt

A simple thought can turn to one deeper
Is life so simple that it ends with one reaper?
Or is there more than what we live amongst?
What we see and taste and hear and touch?
Is life so translucent that we accept what we know?
Is what we know all there is? Or is that all that’s meant to be shown?
Was there a past to our memories that is now lost and ridden
Or is there truly one life to live and one afterlife to the ones forgiven?
Is there one true power that creates every one of us
Or is such a thought an early dream seen from a foggy window oculus?
If the earth is round, is time not the same?
If my life means something, is there a reason or aim?
Besides what purpose I decide for myself
Is there some unknown power that has given thought’s help?
Is what I touch and taste truly there, or is this a figment of mine?
Is what I write and what I stare a true anomaly in a sea of time?
They could be lies and illusions and cancer
Who is there to beg an answer?
They could be truths and fascinations
What is there but the imagination?
The human mind is one to question
Such diversity in all intentions
Only consistent in terrific ways
Be it by acts of charity or acts inhumane
Is it human to question?
Is it human to accept? (cont.)
Is it human to search and destroy?
Is it human to act inept?
What logic rages in my heart?
What feeling soars through my brain?
What catastrophic irony betrays me
While I carry fire in rain?

The sea rolls thick
The rocks grow sick
The sand paves way
The sky is painted gray
By the clouds which wind
simply cannot sway
What’s done is done
But what pain has stained
Can never be removed
Will always remain
So as new blades grow
green and lean and full
and succession makes haste
in its slow natural pull
the creatures all live and breathe
day by day
breeze and gust
Must it be?
So it must


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