What do I believe in, as the years fall
like seasons into the earth of my skin?
As if I touched myself in the creases, I’d
feel my age jump out at me; and test my
body that feels young, but crunches in action,
with the trials of time. Do I believe in myself,
like a vicar telling the congregation with a
finality, to stop practising the ritual, for
redemption comes only from belief in oneself?!
If institutions can fall by the wayside by
the sleight of wisdom, could we be refreshingly
wiser! You can tell simple minds only borrow
their morals because they have no capacity for
vision. Likewise, you can’t teach the astute,
because of their innateness. I wonder, thus, how
people proclaim that all of us are equal?! Obtuseness
is not simplicity, and simplicity can be unspoken
profundity. Did I live to learn anything at all from
peers, teachers, leaders? Or the silent valediction
of Dad and Mum stuck in my soul to be magnified by
being led by example? When we talk of inheritance,
is it only what we refer to as the material?
