The Envelope

The envelope is in our hands

We are busy scouring other lands

For outer gain, the envelope may hold

A map to the treasure, under its fold

When our legs tire, we remain in one spot

Forgetting the envelope, it becomes an afterthought

Precious strands of creation, we call DNA

Wither, and warn us of the coming grey

The envelope is never touched

By hands busy with the world they've clutched

What’s to come, we cannot say

Life is open and not a scripted play

The envelope holds the answer

It is opaque, not one for candor

In it is this moment, once opened we drop our toys

And finally be free to rejoice