The mind is cynical; the body’s not.
Heavens. What we put our spirits through —
To turn down alleyways is to explore:
To find dead ends is one more thing we do.
But not all paths must lead to our frustration,
Or to the entropy of humankind:
Relationships – fresh air and stale vexation –
Sometimes it’s not the path, but how it’s lined
With flowers or with bushes or with briars —
Down cobblestone or brick or dirt or mud,
And whether there’s a traveler beside us:
For we are doomed, at times, to lose some blood.
But beauty creates pleasure in the moment,
And moments create story arcs and themes
That go beyond a mere array of choices
We boil down to adages or memes.
Though parenthetical may be our statute,
And quite unglamorous our common forms,
It is the stretching of us and within us,
The friction, that creates the part that warms
The colder bodies that we will encounter.
Those who this life has frozen, paralyzed,
Who may see us as stars in darkened heavens,
For what we do not see may still be prized
By those whose angle gives an “else” perspective:
And for whom questions are not only such
As lead to theoretical conclusions —
Those who life underfeeds, and overmuch.
Come turn the street with me, and walk a new way.
Though life be grievous, there is joy in talk —
For dancing never should have been a contest,
But more the way we should have learned