Not all men are born to be warriors,
some born amidst chaos
can choose to be carriers.

Carriers of secrets,
holders of pain.
Some stay strong
Fewer turn insane.

Not all saints choose to be at bliss,
It’s a never ending battle,
A point we all seem to miss.

You are what has been awaited,
yet we strive in this life,
Heavily sedated.

What face do the seers have to show,
when it is us, who are so eager to reap what we sow,

It’s a miracle we even came this far,
for it is no surprise,
that the fight between soul and ego,
ending up with us always sub par.

Maybe it’s time to become a saint,
In its real sense.
that no ego can let our intentions begin to taint.
Only then comes the time where we begin to paint.

Painting our skies with star-light,
that shines bright,
Although,
this comes only when we agree on
what is wrong & what is right.