Human
by Tim Reed
What is this thing called human?
Isolated among many
Too proud to receive
Too strong to be weak
but too weak to be strong
and too poor to be alone
Isolation is a luxury none can afford
What is this thing called human?
So quick to leave
too mobile to remain
too independent to lean
but dependent at its core
and with need for deep roots
the Grand, Stationary Parade
What is this thing called human?
too efficient to love
too diligent to weep
but unable not to feel
and impotent to indifference
there is no shame in love
What is this thing called human?
too thoughtful to speak
too talkative to listen
but unable to truly talk
and buried by the silence of many words
we have lost meaning in our speech
What is this thing called human?
too busy to stop
too connected to observe
but unable to connect
and robbed by all our forward motion
Where is the ability to be enthralled?
What is this thing called human?
too sufficient for God
too unbroken to bow
but unable to be fixed
and without a scrap of know-how
we are not enough.
What is this thing called human?
too abased to rise
too humble to stand
but we build in the dust
and we chain ourselves to shame
When will we learn that we bear the golden seal?
What is this thing called human?
so quick to question
so slow to trust
but we trust our hesitancy
and we build walls of questions
When will enough be enough?
What is this thing called human?
I am only just beginning to know.
A great painting in a dusty abode.
A priceless coin buried in stone.
A steam-train engine untouched by coal.
The leaves of autumn braving the snow.
Untapped.
Asleep.
Broken beauty - but beauty nonetheless.
What is this thing called human?
