To poems must Life,
	At length,
	Ever turn.
	The joy one feels
	As one learns,
	The sorrow
	As one tries
	To forget--
	To see Love
	Stand just beyond
	One's grasp,
	Warm and free--
	To feel loneliness
	Plod across
	All one's life--
	So many poems
	We live,
	Of some few
	The author,
	Of still more
	Little else
	Than dolls
	Moved to and fro
	In mimicry.

	Once, I
	Liked to think
	True poems
	Were never sad,
	That we all
	Had music
	With our souls.
	Now the bruises
	Heal neither
	Quickly or so well.
	I have awakened
	From the spell
	Cast by someone--
	Or thing--
	So long gone by,
	That I
	Do not know
	To whom to cry.
	Oh God!
	Did you
	Hear my prayers
	Ten years ago?
	Were they not enough
	To convince you
	Of my need?
	Or does
	Even God tire
	Of tirades after all?
	We each must fall
	In due time,
	It seems, from
	Our own Edens
	To some land
	More harsh
	And barren;
	Some land
	Where Love
	Can scarcely grow,
	Much less bloom,
	And where we
	May assume
	Save emptiness.

	I am tired...
	But once,
	The tiredness
	Seemed noble,
	Born of a struggle
	To live Life
	In hopes
	That Someday
	Love would
	Conquer all and
	Fatigue would be
	No more.
	Then, there
	Was something
	Worth struggling for...

	But Time
	Has brought me
	To my knees,
	And if God
	Hears my pleas,
	It pleases him not
	To acknowledge me.
	Each measured,
	Tiny tick of Time
	Is yet another
	Couplet in the rhyme,
	Whose reason lies
	Within my stagnant soul.


© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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