These first poems are from twelve years ago, the very first of my post-primordial poetry; that which I started when I started writing every day:

I am The Way and The Truth and The Life:

No one comes to The Father except through me.

The Way is the path the seed takes to become fruit:

So that the garden may forever be seeded.

The Truth is that of the farmer who knows he is His own crop:

So that he may grow to be the best he can be.

The Life is one of trials and lessons:

So that we may have a better head than the one of yesterday.

The Way

The garden is filled with many thorns

That leave their mark on our souls.

If left untreated, these scars will grow into horns,

And make us lose sight of our true goals.

Take solace in knowing that the scars are The Way:

For in seeking the source that causes us to hate,

Can we find the peace that makes us whole.

Though the vault of memories is often sealed,

It is in the trial of opening it that we are healed.

Though we were hurt, it is in the light of love,

For our struggles will grow what we are made of.

The Truth

Once there was a farmer who was like a sloth.

He desired fortune, but sowed no seeds.

In the absence of work, his fields showed no growth,

For one's harvest is dependent on one's deeds.

Another farmer dedicated his life to his craft.

“Why do you work more than is needed?” his wife once asked.

“If I spend each day working the Earth,

Then like my wheat, I grow my own worth.

Over time, my efforts accumulate,

And soon I will be a man who can be called great.”

The Life

There was once a rich man who had a son.

The unlucky child lived a life of luxury.

His father gave him everything he had won,

So the son's life was free of drudgery.

Yet, when he became man, there was no joy

For he had grown nothing when he was a boy.

And any bump in the road would cause him to give in.

There was once a poor man who had a daughter.

The blessed child lived a life of adversity.

The man had so little he could give her.

So many troubles came their way: they could only be pitied.

Yet, when she became a woman, every day was like a pearl

For the bumpy roads had conditioned her when she was but a girl

To rise up to every challenge that she was given.

...

I just redid those four conjoined poems into four poems of three lines, after those twelve years of progress:

The way is what takes you there

The truth tells you exactly where

The life is good and all be so fair

.

I pricked myself today to feel

To turn the self like the wheel

From present my future steal

.

Why do you work so hard my dear?

I know the devil and death I do fear

That is why 2 highest height I steer

.

He was so fortunate

She - sadly - was not

Yet hu tie better knot

...

The wisdom is self-evident.