A poem about those two little simple complicated things. Life and death. And freedom. Four things then.
So like the dying wasp colliding violently with pane,
In the desperate hope that freedom can be found where he can see,
And no hope of understanding that the physics of the frame
Mean that glass is a transparent barrier to being free,
We collide with understanding, time and time and time again,
In the desperate hope that freedom can be found within these pages,
Seeking rhyme and seeking reason, seeking freedom from the cage,
Never knowing just how close we are to where we want to be.
Like the wasp, we cannot know that freedom’s secret is so near,
That the window’s always open; all we need’s to fly towards it
But the panic that we fly with is a panic born of fear
And we spend our vital energy perpetually forward.
The simple sidewards strafe towards the open air is safe;
We are tethered to our blinkered understanding of direction
And the freedom to explore is what we fear, in any case,
So we sting the guiding hand regardless of its good intention.
So we strike with all our might and make collisions with the surface,
Masochistic in our efforts to go back to where we came,
And the irony is that release of death will never hurt us
As the peace that we are seeking is beyond the window’s pane.