It is the suffocation of the invisible that inhibits us
far more than the fragility of those things that seem,
but for a moment,
to comprise the prisons
in which we have no choice but to play our part
but which in reality
are the cocoons outside of which we dare not step.
For we are ever mindful of our finitude,
all too conscious of the silken thread by which we see
But some find cause to step beyond.
Or is it unthinkingly simplistic to talk of causes?
Is there a destiny that finds its meaning only as the story ends, those lifelong moments comprising merely the arena in which our mystery play unfolds.
And the audience?
An audience of one?
And who might that one be?
And who are we to know?
And if we claim to have such understanding, what then?
to offer the crushing weight of knowledge or
to stand aloof and wonder at the majesty of innocence?