they pointed to a space in air,
a measure of the soul,
and taught us all to stand and stare
at this imagined pole.
they built a world on "should" and "must,"
on reaching for a star
that was just dust,
just faith in the phantom bar.

i saw the judges trade their nods,
their lies polite and deep,
the same as gods on marble rods
that promises can't keep.
i saw the strain,
the glorious sweat,
the triumph and the scar,
all for a debt
to the invisible bar.

so i walked off the measured field,
the track of should and ought,
and found the yield
was in the thought
that there is no bar.
there is only the jungle.
there is only the fruit.
there is only the swing.

no more competing with the ghost
of some agreed-upon lie.
what matters most
is a keen eye
for what is truly there.
the vine,
the branch,
the ripe and sweet,
the effortless,
airborne feat.
the motion is the meeting place,
the present is the only race.
you can be what you want,
without raising one finger.

so let the eager climbers climb
their ladders to the void.
you have the luxury of time,
un-anxious,
un-deployed.
to want is to already be;
the fruit is in the hand.
you are the jungle,
wild and free,
upon your own demand.