if two lanes merge, is not he who cuts

if two lanes merge, is not he who cuts
sooner in the direction all are going, creating
a wave, of thoughts, notions & motions—
think how a root grows, in all directions:
alive, aware, reaching, growing forth
seeking light, truth—see the shape
feel it move—; the racer’s leave’s is his wind,
in your face, blowing you off course,
or taking you side by side so high—
he’ll learn what it takes and what it means
to turn and turn with the world,
so word by word, heard or unheard:
the squall winds with woe those,
in squalor of thought—think, again,
how to lines of motion in opposition
is supposition to the notion;
but never can one be certain
which is which: what you see and hear,
what you fear and feel—perception—
and what you hold so dear—recollection—
steadfast, fasten your self down:
so you can lean in early, or rush to finish—
remembering: either way the path is;
singular, it is the same: but the path of
resistance is not the path from on high,
not one clears pathways and provides—
such is the attribute of the creator—
race—for who can surpass the time—
but the one none will survive, for
he lives ever, though still we create
without control and honestly,
and what befalls us is from our hands
wrought from curiosity and false freedoms,
kingdom-comes of emptiness and
deception deceiving but themselves
with plurality only of contradictions,
firstly, upon whom they lay blame—
say, now, the poets are all who pain
and paint with the airs, making fire
the rain follows, pushing through the earth,
like hot-heart-heat waves with wild oceans
of thought-driven emotions, storms
reminding one they are not alone,
pouring forth all one sees, like seas
in two directions only in tumult
when the source is unknown
and the force is too strong
for whoever comes along;
so you start it off, you follow it
and you end it at once and for all,
in a moment and for forever,
or never—to which do you call?