If the sky is blue, then I must ponder, what would a green or red day look like. If the world is round, then I must wonder, why would we spin so quickly. If the voice is clear, then I must question, who cleaned out it's foul words. I must never have a question unanswered.
I am the learner. I wear my own wisdom. It cripples and triples with each day which I wither.
Knowledge is power, but not to one's cold self. It's all of a lie, that wise old wealth. Their skin is old, their eyes are deep and bones are thick and few of teeth. They know the truth, but refuse to enlist the beautiful words in which they kiss away to open wind.
They tell you at youth to learn as you must, but only a curse to be so smart at so small. Your world is still growing, and changing and falling, yet you already know it all. Adventure is ripped, excitement is buried and all to do is cry. You'll feel the heavy roots pulling you down as your mind begins to die.
See truly, oh truly, they mean what they say. Knowledge is power that gets in your way. To know so much means to want to know more, to get lost in a fantasy lore. Sadly, and coldly, here lies your curse. You'll rot as they all crawl over your worst.
While you cry and ponder until the world is gone, they'll use you, abuse you, and weaken your bond. You'll be cynical and dark, and you'll live all alone, because knowlege is meant to be kept to the grown.
