Molding

Soul chained to flesh
Mind chained to heart
These shackles don’t unmake
Spiritual solace seems a farce
Not intending to be stolid and wry
I look at the sun in the sky
Then the night is a far cry

Light in the brightness doesn’t shine
Joy in the happiness confined
Dark in the darkness finite
Liberty in free will is bined

Mystified manifestations have their root
Such that won’t be plundered in a loot
An imperialist won’t own them by force
Even when tried with morose

Always molding containers in shape
Only to use their empty space
Structure and order you may seek
But it is the void that shall forever speak