All along
	The backward paths
	Gates close,
	And darkness
	Creeps closer,
	As memories die.
	The future
	Looms ominous
	And shrouded,
	And sinister.
	But I am forced
	To face my destiny,
	Whether it is
	Good or ill,
	Despite my skill
	Or lack thereof
	To understand
	And cope
	With its uncertainties.
	I hear the bars
	Clang shut behind,
	Each awful echo
	An icy blade
	Embedded in my 
	Empty soul.
	What is my goal?
	All I see
	Is mist;
	I do not know
	Where to turn.
	I do not want
	To give up
	My selfish right
	To choose
	The channels
	Of my chartless life!
	But strife
	Is all I've had,
	Since I
	Grabbed the map
	And wheel
	And dared the gale
	To rob me
	Of the pleasures
	I desired.
	Must I give
	To God
	The tiller
	Of my Life?
	Must it be He
	Instead of me
	Who says
	How and when and where
	I shall come and go?
	God, I rail
	At Thee!
	I feel the devil's
	Bitter bile
	Rise within me,
	As I come
	To demand
	Recompense for all
	I've been cheated of.
	All I wanted
	Was a little love!
	Precious little
	Is all I've had.
	Why make
	A Job of me?
	Three decades
	I've held my
	Open, empty sack
	Before Your throne
	And watched
	You cast
	Only crumbs to me,
	As others feasted
	From Your groaning board.
	Do You love
	Must I govel
	At Your feet?
	I would rather starve!
	And I likely shall,
	For pride
	Is never fed its fill.
	Still-- give You
	Control of every will
	And whim?
	Good God, why!
	You've never yet
	Taken me anywhere
	I'd want to go,
	Save once...
	And that time
	It was only
	So You could test me
	In the end.
	Why should I
	Trust You?
	Yet, I cannot
	Even trust myself.


© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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