Words of a book,
That are,
To some,
Blurred,
But to others,
Warped so that their true meaning, the words read between the lines, are revealed,
By tears that,
To some,
Stream,
But to others,
Erode the flat expanses of a smooth face,
Lips that,
To some,
Curve up and down,
But to others,
Burst forth and then recede, like the waves of massive oceans, during thunderstorms,
Who is to say,
One or the other,
You or I,
Is right or wrong,
Who is to say,
What constitutes right?
To be in accordance with what is just?
To be perfect or flawless?
Correct in judgment?
And wrong?
Not in conformity with the truth?
Not in accordance with what is morally right?
Or, jokingly, not in agreement with me?
We ask these questions,
With the entire world at our fingertips,
Asking,
In fruitless, frustrating attempts,
To break through barriers,
Of opinionated responses,
Of untruthful answers,
But can these questions actually be answered,
Or are they always tossed aside,
With daily reminders of life,
Constantly changing, moving forward,
Bills, screaming children, death, sickness,
Is it right,
Morally,
To take a step back,
Examine our consciences,
And decide that this is more important,
To find the meaning of life,
But is there a meaning,
Or are we pawns in a game,
Our moves already decided?