I owe everything I am to loneliness,
and thus, my children will know,
I’ve buried in the comfort of the fields inside,
so that all the seeds of antiquity will grow,
if you want advice on acquiring a kingdom,
and riches beyond of which you can show,
plant a seed, a deed and cover all your secrets,
learn patience, and from your garden, reap what you sew.
There’s method to the madness,
but it’s only madness in the eyes of the mad,
the clinically insane,
the pathologically mundane,
and in pain.
It hurts them to step outside the normality of triviality,
so if I teach and nurture my children,
train them well in the science of the self,
teach them peace and comfort and inner wealth,
to be comfortable in their own shells,
I’m apparently abnormal,
a radical of sorts,
reduced to label of this or that,
because I choose not to sell their souls,
or trust them to anyone but themselves.
It becomes very apparent,
it’s not that they disagree with me,
nor find my reasoning outrageous,
it’s envy, jealousy and laziness,
that they, don’t have the fibre, nor zeal,
to do the same.