When the Philosopher Dies, the Poet Shines
Been reflecting on why the caged bird singsmaybe its to prove its existence,
amongst many other things
or maybe its an affirmation
from the beauty of tribulations,
that life seldom brings.
Well, its common for man to be a thinker,
a faithful slave of emotion
for nothing, not even ourselves;
could have become something,
without it ever being a notion
because there's one in us all,
as far as I can recall.
Once the paint of paintings dries,
those parsecs of life mimic precedented life
unlike the sculptor and his stone,
where trial and error become the philosopher's knife.
If we were to put down,
the pens of cognitives in our mind
open eyes and the mind will surely follow behind
we'd find that the love of knowledge and wisdom
incompareable to language and rhythm,
when they're harmoniously aligned
but once one moves past arguing with reason,
the artist can paint life's season.
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