ArrowRinehart

Whose to say that karmic value reads smoothly There is a scale to see, a balance with no lead. For those who suffer, does a clock toll Retribution is high and yet down on luck. With favor to blend the low shall regain clarity May the high and unworthy find an even playing field. So that cosmic coin is not lost, but gains shall rally the favor For all to see this day of merit by trial.

Another sound, same thing whispered Lost voices and boons that fall short If all is said and done, what does there remains? Perhaps some lost visibility, but net gain sound A melody the murmur, a dancer on a spinning coin top Peril is to glee, how the heavenly chorus is to despair It is sadly all the same dull tone.

It is all that comes and with it all that I ever hear, the same things that ever get in my way. The source of them changing from day to day and point to point, as always it may stand as a resolute barrier attempting to herd me back. To keep me away from finding prominence that I seek, in form of the next step to a better me, my absolution sits in front. Yet time after time it always comes about, so that I hear something in the order of "can't", "pointless effort", "I'll do it myself". All of these lines near and dear to me, a familiar menace with a close kept feelings, all to me part of the answer and the problem at once. It is that they know not the future and solo work has its limits, yet with horizons brought there are no limits. The perpetual loop shall find me again, with aimless ends end exits at every turn, yet I shall not bow to the failed effort; rather it shall only make me become the next step of myself for the better.

Like the minds before me have teetered, every like a breeze that has not blown. It is a simple feat to stand firm in place and play the stoic card against most, unmotivated and lacking enough in it to change. Guiltless remains shall not find much to hide, as a husk does little to maintain what it sits above. Barren and over a shell, a skin that is bleached with decay and the rot of ages, a self loathing response that sits unspoken. It twists ever present and ever pleasant, how like a sun in its shine, warm and giving at its time when bounty sits. But the truth shall remain that the Sol that shines cannot give what it promises always towards all. When it becomes a bevy of heavenless burdens that weigh upon its smoldering parts beneath, the sol that shines burns deep and shall fade at some point in the future. A Wisp that once promised something to others shall not to itself. It remains as without its own purpose of sitting parts that shall peter out without any assistance. It is the one

Where the lacking things stand How a single word can mislead The ever changing flow of something built up Revved up. A whisper that becomes a bellow A yell that becomes piercing Like a shriek it tends to follow suit Revved up. Something broader in sense of being Beyond that like a world of weeping Simply what it tried to churn Revved up. A thought that like a silhouette Announced itself with perfect haste Then dispatched its presence like itself unmade Revved up. How this sounds like a thing that is a tale Something synthetic and measured Yet there it sits untethered Revved up. Let it build a moment's weary Like a full blown memory But a simple momentary focus Revved up. Finite in presidence over ruling bodies Yet it does nothing favors And in its own folly it remains Revved up. When has it reached its highest peak Like a pillar it seeks without a true spire Pointless heights to read like a book shall be Revved up. Endless as the lines before them, the points of thoughts

When given but a set of choices and told that they shall not matter Then to pay your weight in blood over it. That which trails across the beads of sand and keeps traces of them Perhaps the only sign that one had ever been there, sampling a dry and wind blown mead. Naught shall the feeling claim the mind that stands before it Depressive forces squeeze around the mind and encapuslate the soul. All binding, all knowing, and simply miserable over the thought of it That anxious measure of the choice being a piddly part. Be not tiny, remember how small each choice is a ripple, Crumble and crush the foundation grit. Falsehoods told to the one that a choice is but a gaunt A shuffle and of naught, running through the spirit. It is to be aimed and refined by resolve, even if it crumbles beneath such sophistry Thine words and actions defy one another, rather than define A false prophet besets one on a path, a false one, shall be an eaten turn of threads. Worthless choices they are

How they stand and where they sit Things were brushed and bristled, oh the way of wrong Pulling and pushing through the long way Yet there is nothing but an angle of the lost Where doth it say and lay? With the bruised, how it lingers Even when wrong doth it hurt Pride is to be swallowed For though it aches, it is still right to push down. Doubling down is wrong and the fault There is little to nothing to be seen Yet only the small portion that shall sit And so shall it be Only there in thought, left to linger and so to pass It is little more than the words of a bruised ego, and only a moment's whimsy.

Is it all the same to you? Words that fall upon deaf ears, misinterpretion being what you breathe Your way is the only one that seems sound, The stance being one that is full of empty platitudes One sided pompous presumptions, as your mode of existence must be solo Therein lays your folly Seeing nothing beyond the boarders of a convex view Bloated on some sides and lacking form in others Disformed focus and lacking belief in what is said Projections that are full of hubris and standing Faulty, empty, paltry, and flowing negativity serenade together Yet all that remains is a judgment from thee that speaks layers If ever there was something that was lost Perhaps in its empty presentation of professed understanding Ye are guilty of the plentiful, half sighted grips, lacking of the vision that is preached Tis another self righteous bumble.

Things are indeed not as it seems, something with my mind simply won't be. There are fingers pointed at thee and the words that come with it remain hard Rough to hear and further with the focus of the tangle and tackle involved with life. Yet there are things that remain steady and true, how I find there being things unfairly pointed But fault cannot be shifted from me entirely as there are things that are known to be Simply wehere steps that sit upon a bough remain firm, but unsteady. But here as things sit, they shall not improve alone Steps will be taken to make things right and a confident stamp falls down Pressing to the paper with the hope that it will be best on this path chosen A way forward is one to use the solution presented within the problem itself. To be attentive and remain in part, only interacting where one feels comfortable Showing feelings that are true, but still fall flat due to things and lacking thereof Of parts and fragments of something that sits with

From the view above there I've seen many a thing If from the perch upon the clouds above, apart from heaven Yet a part of the heavenly lights that shine and hold shape Ye sit upon the throne, casually like a feline lazing majestically Something that has come from a place and a part therein a moment to be worn Like a hazy dream to be constituted from the place above Herein the moment and the mood continues to grow wherein its soul may be seen A burning that takes place above, with the setting sun that inches across the land Bringing something to the sully of the skies below All around is the one paper lantern on the wind At the whimsy of the dragon above, a simple look and a single gaze to remain locked with the view below Below the shape is a thing that lays the burden that is built by the winds of fortune blowing over the land and all below it. Under the gaze of a golden eye, that of the Harvest Moon Dragon.