We seem to strive for balance,
For all to be quite still,
Set forces equal zero,
Toss all our doubts downhill.
We find all contradictions,
And kill them on the spot,
Then sterilize their mothers,
And leave them out to rot.
We cannot live with holes,
Find torture in the gaps.
We excavate, and cut and fill.
No beauty in a lapse.
But maybe there's more truth.
When things don't fit with sense.
When tension finds its hold,
When we cannot condense.
So many of the mysteries.
Are seen as flaws of faith.
But maybe these absurdities,
Are really just a lathe.
I seem to think asymmetry,
Is where the beauty lies,
When motion finds it birth,
Where stagnancy must die.
When things are joined by tension,
They find their strongest form,
And prove to show more honesty,
Than what we see as norm.
When what's considered real,
Cannot fit what exists,
Then who's the one who's out of touch?
Why deny what fits?
This tension is the bond,
This struggle is the force,
That pushes us toward finding truth,
And leads us to the source.
Perhaps the true denial,
Is that the light is fake,
But maybe there's just too much light,
For human eyes to take.
