Which way?

Cut out of black skin,
The loincloths of our mothers
To walk on empty streets of righteousness
When the rest travel in trains of egotism

Their presents fast fall behind into dark pasts
Quickly getting to unknown destinations they try
Just before their skins wither under the scorching sun
And their faces boney, with lines of misery

I dread that I might take those trains someday
My feet feel sore from long travels,
My vision blurred by heavy eyelids
And lips dry like crust in a desert

The weight of truth feels heavy on my shoulders,
To walk each day with integrity,
And yet, my fellows,
Whisk about with bags of lies

So happy they seem,
And so easy they say,
Inviting me forth to join the merriment
After all, we truly live only once

But, my heart skips cowardly,
Or rather guided by wisdom,
I don’t know which anyway,
Because happiness is but a blurry line too

Banquets of poisoned foods,
And infinite barrels of old wine
Or plates of herbs and fruits
And combs of honey dept in warm milk

Quick and plenty
Or slow and just enough
The hidden desires of our fading bodies
Colluding our judgment to true felicity 

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