The Thing That Binds Us

As the tendrils reach out through the ages,

always twisting, suffering changes.

They pierce straight through our newborn hearts;

planting themselves like seeds to start.

They guide us through our meager lives;

the beating embers of our strive.

Just as such as a summer breeze,

they’re always felt but never seen.

Leading us through what’s to be,

like a captain on a raging sea.

The parts we play, I start to ponder.

Are they as set as lightning’s thunder?

Is it mortar and brick that holds us in place?

Or are the binds we’re wrapped in but simple lace?

Some compare us to a leaf drifting down a river,

but I prefer to think we grow much more like newborn timber.

For a grand finale hangs above us all;

the same blinding force--inevitable.

That burning sun may dictate the direction in which we grow,

but the twists and turns are up to us; we decide the path we go.