Righteous

You were right,

Who are we to take hold of the veil and part it as we like.

Like curtains, between the mass of black and white.

We are purveyors, when we believe ourselves to be so.

But in the reverse, we are more like onlookers, riding the storm.

There is no twist and turn we can articulate accurately upon extended years.

We are not the seers of futures long left to be bore.

For when we stop selling the convictions of life,

we must traverse the harder storms.

Become the payer of tolls, of feet long worn.

But fickle as man may be, attempting to be sellers of after time,

in the reverse, we have no idea of what kind of life takes on our dying end.

So trade with me, like we might make something more of ourselves,

like we might find the true meaning in life.

Become the god in which righteous living is besought by my word,

buy my wares, then sell my goods.

When you come of age too,

I can turn my wares. Trade off my beseechment,

and let you turn theirs-onlookers, believers, and non-believers alike,

I do not care, for neither here nor there

Will I be anywhere.

For in death, I trade nothing.

Nothing but the final end to my curiosity.

Where the time for me stops,

and I know the secret of humanity.