The Gate
Standing at the gate,
Won’t move any closer,
Time is running late,
The bread is black from the toaster,
And it’s served on your plate
You eat it anyway
So used to the taste
You have to burn it everyday
The gate is your conditionings
Before you, where you stand,
Is it worth mentioning
You built it with your own hands?
And now you’ve caged yourself
Like a bird without its wings
Useless, alone, destitute,
Forgotten how to sing
Beyond the gate is a garden
You’re closed in by the leaves
You know something is out there
The scent dances in the breeze,
Don’t want to turn around
It’s the same, familiar sight,
But beyond the gate,
Through the hushed leaves,
You’re struck by a new light
The Truth is a calling, telling you not to give up
The gate can be destroyed by the hands who put it up.