Open the Door, to that which is Pure.
We are Our Own Doctor, We hold Our Own Cure.
The Past hidden Ages, do not need to hold Sway.
Over so much that We Do, or so much that We Say.
The Desire which shimmers, is holding a Lie.
Searching the shadows, while the Light we defy.
The sorrow, the misery, they all hold the Key.
Listen to their Truth, as The Path, to be Free.
We make Our mistakes, Over, and Again.
Perhaps they’re not wrong, perhaps they’re a Friend.
In seeing the Window, through which they persist.
We can realize the Lessons, We all seem to miss.
Accepting the Who the What and the Why.
Gives cause to Rejoice, but never to cry.
For returning to Self, is a Wondrous state.
Our Ultimate goal, Our Ultimate fate.
It is not that We grow, it is not, an advance.
We simply return, to Our Childhood Dance!

Anonymous, (Boabom North)