It does not make a difference what I believe,
As my lines are prewritten, well-studied and played,
And wrapped tightly around me so that I can’t move.
I’m in love with life’s contrast and ready to prove
I can manage most any mass. I’m not afraid
As I give to momentum just as I receive.
Living gives me the right to see things my own way.
Many ways do encircle me. Some I adopt
And take care of, as, randomly, they move about
With velocities varied. I have not a doubt
That their moments of inertia cannot be stopped.
If my life were as linear, I’d love to play.
Yet I do play by default. What runs around me
Is what I have held onto by my will or not.
I could let them run freely, the ways that I own.
But if they don’t return, I would be left alone,
As my reason for living would be well forgot.
Might my ways be more friendly if tied to a tree?