The Price of Tradition

Quietly, head ahead, walk away, 
vines will cover the wrecked path,
sensing the spite of endless wrath,  
silence swallows, despite our cries,
the unnameable calls for warmth.
Where are you, human condition?

Here, here, so lost, here tradition
holds your narrow vision as a lath.

How many more foes do we need
to realize that a narrow vision 
is what that truly makes us bleed?

No foe, break the lath, envision
the horizon that has been freed
from the ties of a dim tradition,
only the weak of spirit enforce
that which is meant to be free
from deadly ties, a bounded mind,
from empty lies, tradition's cries.