The Art of Individuation

Entombed In Youth

Alas!—others like myself;
Seeking truth, finding meaning.
Yet, when gathered, only one book to help.
My back lay sore from information reeling.

They scoff and hurdle, adhering to the singular source.
Am I false for pulling from the All, or none at all?
Using his divine name Jesus, the one beaten like a horse.
Joshua! Yeshua, be his historical name—know they not even Saul.

Alone in a room of strangers, lost children, and yet still searching.
Blameless they be, for together we seek all to be free.
Questions of who are we, when death comes what will we see.
Time, and only more time will tell, the stories the ancient ones befell.

Are we to turn within, or to cater non devout.
Am I to churn within, physical self looking without.
A riot begins inside my cage, rage, further rage;
and yet more—a peddle through the floor.
Control, patience, faith is what I aim to keep.
Each night alone, swinging wildly in my room,
where are my kindred who seek?

A new age is to come, you all just forgot.
Fixated on material lot.


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