I sit alone
	With my thoughts,
	My poetry
	Gone.
	There is no tomorrow,
	No yesterday,
	Only an empty now.
	There were once those
	Who accused me
	Of living in my past;
	Others, of living
	For the future.
	I have lost both,
	Lost everything
	With any meaning.
	I've tried
	To hold fast
	The past,
	I've tried
	To vision the Future,
	To make it real
	By dent of
	Thought and hope.
	Neither worked.
	Yet--neither
	Has the present
	Yielded lasting peace
	Or joy.
	What, then, is left?
	Whom may I touch
	And feel
	That special thrill
	Of discovering
	A kindred soul?
	Even the casual friend
	Is gone,
	Let alone
	Some spirit
	Whose ancient self
	Is married mystically
	To my own.
	I've tried to love--
	But my feet
	Carried me
	Scarcely any distance
	Along the arduous way.
	I'm not the man
	I thought,
	Or thought
	I could become.
	Perhaps there never was,
	Never could be,
	A better world,
	A more perfect me.
	But now--
	Perfection matters less
	Than once it did.
	I would settle
	For much less
	Than I ever
	Thought I could.
	Still, I want more!
	More, at least,
	Than I have.
	I know
	There can be
	More than this!
	I know--
	But I know not
	How to find it
	Anymore, even if
	I ever did before.

8/30/85

© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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