What is the self, the essence of the soul?
Has it a wealth, a treasure-trove of gold?
Or is it worthless, stale, and never whole,
A longing pit so pale, and ever cold?
The impulse to beget is ne’er subdued,
The avarice is set to rule the world-
The will to live does other lives exclude,
It fails to give a purpose, to be ruled!
The will to aid comes not from distant self,
The just crusade is waged for higher cause,
True love, that beauty gold, looks not to wealth,
The wisdom of the old wants no applause.
In short all bleak design is of the self,
While golden beauty fine, of higher wealth.
© Jerusalemrising (Tyler O’Neil)
Written March 26, 2007
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