A life that’s still is still life, but a life in motion takes flight,
Time’s like water and life’s like ice, progress leaves origins in hindsight,
Even the mountains can move given time, patiently waiting for your place in line,
We grow to change and we change to grow, burn down the forest and new seeds will sow.
From birth to death, make change take steps. You don’t have to be what you were raised to expect
With no destination, stagnant you stay. You don’t have to be what they say, you can change.
Every spring leads to summer, and summer leads to fall, so we move on to the next iteration.
New trees rise up everyday, Fed by the old and decayed, experience feeds the next generation.
Every cell in my body, every breathe in my lungs,
Yearns for tomorrow, and songs yet unsung.
If the present is fleeting, then the past is dead,
But a door that’s just for you lies wide open ahead.
Take a picture of this, it’s just meaningless, it can’t possibly portray, the blossoms or decay.
The painter stepped back from the canvas, left empty handed again / He found himself bound by the same picture, the same self portrait, over and over and over / unable to progress, he slowly began to consume himself, one synapse at a time in vulgar convolution.
He had to escape, had to find a way out / Trapped in a cage / trapped in his skin / There was nothing left to find / A prisoner to his mind / And his hand was a slave / To the self portrait’s ways. WHAT HAPPENS WITHIN, WHEN SNAKES SHED THEIR SKIN.
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