late night analogy and comfort. i take it where i can.
there is a part of forever that we can never find
the possiblity of every path we chose to leave behind
the shades of beauty drawn in manner most unkind
to say it cannot be, to be so fully blind
it is sad sometimes, the manner in which ego plays
fears and dreams scattered as we race within the maze
as if it could ever be that in such selfish craze
we’d find the way to reach those eternal, halcyon days
more and more it seems, when peace i attempt to seek
in its place, discontent, siphoning, leaves me weak
the mountain seems so far from here, impossible, that peak
the things to which i would aspire, no courage left to speak
what happened to the surety? where did the faith go?
how came winter to the garden? why won’t the flowers grow?
confused and feeling blind, as if i may never know
curled into the mulch, at a loss for how to sow
it seems so pointless, to continue Hope to plant
when every harvest rises only to scream and rant
when every spring but brings another to recant
when every try by my own hand only seems to surplant
i would chide me for self pity, a foolish, ego ploy
but there is none of such here, nor a lacking of joy
yet within each smile, a sigh, that the shadow’s ever buoy
shall i pretend to perfection? i could not be so coy
not with this place, so verdant and gone to seed
where despite my truest care, rarely more than weed
when wish to better or benefit so rarely doth succeed
and the paths are marked and rusty, evidence that i bleed
in the garden of forever, i have long wearied with toil
to nourish that which would lend to enrichment of this soil
to banish that which would destroy, wherever it may coil
or pen it in such fashion that it might not benefit foil
but i am a clumsy gardener, no grace with spade or hoe
no matter how i seed, weeds and thorns in every row
i begin to despair, my heart, it fills with woe
i look forward to winter, that hides failures under snow
surely there will be a day, upon some future, brighter spring
when even here, in this place, effort shall forth bring
better than this mess, some manner of graceful thing
to lessen the feeling of incompetence’s bitter sting
which is of course, why i remain, clumsy gardener that i am
stubborn and silly, yes, trying to make soil from sand
no matter how the word ‘impossible’ may command
willing to be a fool, to persist, insist, and stand
for there is a part of forever that we will never find
if the possiblity of every path we chose to leave behind
or drawn the shades of beauty in manner most unkind
or say it cannot be, and chose to be fully blind