2 June 2012
A single-spoked wheel turns slowly in circles,
Whilst the snake of our conscience weaves slowly within.
An eight-eyed oxen pulls the most-tragic cart, with the single-spoked wheel turning sluggish at it's heart. The long road is winding and 'Life' is its name, and the oxen's harsh driver plays Death for a game. The fires of hardship burn slowly aside, as celestial bodies take time in their stride, for the single-spoked wheel is fragile and weak, and the serpent as yet has not learned how to speak, so they trundle on slowly with Death at the helm, paying little or no mind to the Heavenly realm. But the Heavenly realm pays them mind indeed, for on the road 'Life' is Fate and his steed. Unknown to Death it is Fate guides the ox, past the fires of hardship and troublesome rocks,
For Death is nought but a watchman and not to be feared, it is Fate who's in charge and should be him who's revered.
The snake of our conscience is joined by the tree, which despite its futility is where it should be, for you see We are the tree and all that it is, and we are cared for and tended by Fate and all his,
But that's not to say he's caring or loving or kind; Fate answers to no one and pays nobody mind, so further we labour down 'Life' with it's trappings, with Fate up ahead and Death gently tapping, he taps on the wheel to set the cart's pace, and tells the snake 'Do not worry', his secrets are safe.
Our conscience is mighty and fearful both, and the snake labels Death as an ungracious host, but in truth it is Fate and his fires of hardship, that causes the single-spoked wheel to tip, 'Life' is nought but a road; detached and unthinking, not Death should we blame if our Life-cart is sinking. But our journey and conscience are interminably wrapped, and blaming poor Death seems to be part of a pact, that's unknowingly written and unknowingly signed, that we slowly uncover as the road we unwind.
Anguis Et Rota • Opuss № I