In the cool upstairs room
I read the words of a mystic.
You read the impressions
Of your impulses,
An innocent dance,
The most innocent dance,
Of an unfettered conscience
Spared of the exposure
To ultraviolet rays of judgement,
which paradoxically begin to burn
At the onset
Of linguistic recognition
And the realization
Of language's prison-like structure.
But I'm trying to teach you
To abide
Such that you won't find yourself in a prison
But a shelter.
You choose the path
that has been chosen for you.
Choose wisely my sweet child.