Photo by Haoshuang Lou
RHYME
Their daily life swept swiftly to succeed the drift it spite; the norm, was bought to ready knead, as such, to earn its gentle right. The trade it bore was fitly forged through years before its kind. And worked in hope to fell rewards that laid the gentle side.
Furrow fury toward the challenges; thwart rigorous defile, disingenuous trough merciless, society would idle. The structure varies, noted, nothing lies beyond thin lens escape, no less to chisel hard and chafe accrued and send what it creates. A vicious fun seeking its interest; so flighty, petty, soft; with drenches sharp as bristled steel and brightly fickle, witty, long. This stem extends from all the basics, which for some will breeze just fine, and all that lack will hurry still until it falls the gentle side.
Disapproving gusts fought fairly, stripping layers from its base; the discipline it took, dispelled itself, and sought to meet halfway. Gaping from unbalanced spheres too weak to satisfy its place, one looks to days now criticized to be the best before the change. The chills of difference, seen at its core, reserves the same insight, to find, to cling what brings in true to it and grips its reason tight. If each belief is resonate of piece distinct by own accord, in flow unfairness, it will firm itself and love its own rewards. These days are surf within the sea which swell and patch away with time, and by new course it shares and sails again to beach the gentle side.
Against the other half of dawn, the light breeds bending just to fit, it doesn’t mean it seeks to stay at false and beam its opposite. To make aware all that seems hidden is what yields from dark disdain; and bouts to claim enough is not enough weigh stay where less has staid. Like sheets of sand, there is this disregard that fares for either kind; whether to wash upon the surface or remain against the sky. To learn the worst of what it needs and spill the best success to thine, it brings to water all its benefits and dress the gentle side.
PART TWO
I wonder if I will find the same peace as the snow. It fields the entire landscape in front of me under one incredibly pure sand. There are areas that patch away as if it’s been washed or seen through; but looking at it right now, just effort less.
You know there was so much more involved for it to reach this place, and still it managed to sit perfectly with so many others like it—brilliant, separate.
We are very much like the snow; an endless result after a relentless labor through an environment that in all fairness rejected… why are the things we are made aware of ignored. We are a perfect match, the snow.
Their environment is no different than anything else. Only under a very specific set of conditions are they even aloud to celebrate; and I might not think I would enjoy the conditions it has gone through to be here. I know because it is not unlike what I have experienced.
To exist; though reason can say what’s so difficult about weather and altitude, moisture and cold, these things do not always produce the same thing, in fact they never do, but it struggles and that seems to be constant in all that we see.
Yes, its environment is no different than mine. It didn’t take much to introduce the conditions that aloud for its birth, but what the situation itself had to go through could not possibly have predicted this forecast.
Ask any scholar, at its most basic understanding, this is not benign. But its fight is beautiful in that despite being cut the same its strands are different, and prefer it so, and resilient to suffer so much for a time before falling, freely, after it’s gone through all that the weather so fit before it, could settle peacefully, respectfully, and comfortably with all that were challenged the same.