We always know when God tests us, Our ego: the source of confusion. The path that we walk has been set, It is only obscured by illusion. No prize ever falls in our laps, All that seems so is but bait to tempt us. And we fall for it when foolish pride, Takes upon it the task to exempt us. The blessings God gives us in life, Are the things we oft take for granted. All the moments we love are a fiction, Built up only because they’re enchanted. To live and to love is a loan, To die and to hate is its payment. No interest expected in this life, For not once has God come to claim it. The purpose of this world is simple: At all costs our will is frustrated. Desire is punished by loss, Denial is all that’s been fated. For all that our selfish hearts covet, Is dust like Carthage post-salt. If pain stabs your heart like a dagger, Just know that it’s all
Listening to Scriabin's Etudes while reading this no doubt altered my perception. Nonetheless, it reaches deep into a man's soul.
I don't believe that to be flattery or aggrandizement.
Perhaps it is the undeniable truth of this poem that fills me melancholy (Scriabin never has that effect on me).
It is beautiful.