poem 51608

May 16, 2008

Evidence of needing to be here grows.
The slightest remnants fading of choice.

What if I had never been so lazy as to end up where I am?
What of all that opportunity before me?

I live a life of predestination, where I sit where I’m told,
Though honestly, I think I do most of the telling.

What control! What lack of control!
I sing to how little I knew when I arrived.

I sing to how little remains of the man who started that trip.
What little is left of the youth who walked that threshold.

But what is this new form in its place?


One comment

  1. The man who started the journey will always be there. He will only have learned what he needed to know to move on with his life. (Makes sense to me.)

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