And so
	I bring my pen
	Once more
	To poetry's door,
	Ever seeking
	The secrets
	Of my soul.
	That soul
	Is wounded now—
	Bruised and
	Battered worse
	Than I ever
	Would be
	My fate.
	I was
	The Lucky One
	(So I thought),
	The one
	Who escaped
	Ill health,
	Who would
	Succeed in Love,
	At work,
	In whatever
	I chose to do.
	Life just smiled,
	Waited patiently.
	Time is always
	On Life's side.
	A day, an hour,
	A week—
	Whole years go by:
	Life doesn't care.
	Life knows
	Time is always
	On its side,
	Not mine.
	And so...
	More lies behind
	Than before.
	Yet less
	Lies behind
	Than I desired.
	Whose fault
	Is that?
	I wish
	I could say
	Some other name,
	But only mine
	Echoes down
	The empty paths
	I've trod.
	Only mine.


© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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