Art of life

Who should i believe, when the truth bearers argue
the truth is lost between ideals and reality.
All knowledge is biased, as the word itself
a million flowers fighting to burst from the same bud.

All that i know is that i do not know
what i need to know is what senses cannot uncover.
What else am i but myself, existing, alive, angry
my sword is the sheath of my soul defining me.

The art of death embodies living fully
to attain the mystic spirit of perfection,
to become the instrument of your instincts,
to tame the world to equal your savagery.

Without a map, without a guiding teacher
chaos sheds its earthly garments, inviting
to be conquered without visible light,
without thoughts to win or lose.

Its written in your blood, your fated hands
reaching for the cloudy pillow of sea gulls
to attain the means to uncover truth,
to taste freedom, to cry freedom.

Dance on the edge of sharpened steel
until truth could not be denied to you.
Tears and blood upon the wet sand-
the legacy of he who chose to know himself.


Inspired by the teachings and life of Miyamoto Musashi.