The Fine Print: Poetry

I've long wondered
why life contains
hidden type,
as if we are
all the slaves
of lawyers
forever producing
fine print
I daresay our
condition had nothing
to do with the existence
or non-existence of God:
Just with our frustrations at
being unable to see the
scope of such a being
I sit here,
the production of wars and
glories, Proverbs and
executions, laughter and
desire, thunder and elation:
And had any person before me
not chose as they had...
I would not be here
As I Am
A person is the highest
evolution of every moment
come before,
traced backwards through
infinity towards
a Singularity of One
And our error is in assuming
that this evolution does not
coincide with the simultaneous
awareness within everything else
we lament our choices,
damnable choices,
we made without grasping
the full picture
or seeing that final ending
that tore the heart in two
The world reflects
our heartache back at us
because it alters as we do
Could we ever understand
a world that does not hurt
or mourn or cry?
Could we understand ourselves
without the prism
of Good and Evil?
If we spit out
the fruit we ate,
would we still be alive?
For my part,
I can say only
that Knowing,
all this Knowing,
keeps me awake quite often.

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