Journey from birth to death is one of choices.
Series of which define the travelogue,
Containing by wisdom, only bliss and compliments.
Tenderness of touch and sweetness of voices.
We drag our grief along, so it accumulates dust.
Throw it away and free your hands for embrace,
Or wrap it around and be one with it.
For it would be a filter now, revealing virtue and lust.
Hypocrisy separates the words from thought.
A union of both is a recipe for offence.
Proper proportion however, would promise both,
The friends to be cherished and enemies to be fought.
The perfect choice however is a wise man’s cognizance.
And as wisdom culminates in the face of death,
Knowing now that error defines the course of life,
All a wise man can write is in the memory of his ignorance.
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