What is it?

What is it
That drives and halts the soul?
What is it
That mends and breaks the heart?
What is it
That draws the winds of change
And brings them as but a breeze to some,
And yet a storm to others?

Is it Literature? The written word?
That sprawling, scrawling, inky text unheard?
Shakespeare, Elliot, Browning, Poe, Doyle?
Is the written word the mortal coil?
It could be argued by the greater men
Of our time, that a word can do you in.
But a word bears no power of its own.
It needs man’s mind to become fully grown.

Is it Culture? Is it politicians?
That inspires the called to their missions?
Churchill, Washington, Hitler, Gandhi, no.
The ebbing waves of culture come and go.
But if not culture, well, what is it then?
What drives the most essential life of men?
It cannot be found in the written word,
And it was not by man that man occurred.

What makes the blood boil?
For what does man toil?
What mends and breaks the heart?
Not math, science, or art.
What destroys the past without fail,
And makes the future just a tale?
The winds of change, the sands of time,
A word of reason or of rhyme.

Man does not
Drive or halt the soul.
Man does not
Mend or break the heart.
Man does not
Draw the winds of change.
He can’t make them but a breeze to some,
And yet a storm to others.
Gilded in armor of light,
Our answer is just in sight.
Do you know the Answer?

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