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
now...
~
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
~
Instead,
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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