No good will it do,
	To curse the world
	My own heart
	I am free:
	To choose, to mold,
	To fashion from my belief
	All the good and ill
	That flows past
	Me every day.
	All I lose or gain
	Comes and goes
	With the tide
	Of my thoughts and aspirations,
	With the infinite
	Respiration of my soul.
	In another land unseen,
	Unfelt, unknown to flesh,
	My greater self
	Knows what my prisoner's eyes
	Cannot see:  Why.
	Futility is unmasked
	To show the woven fabric
	Of Purpose,
	Which must enmesh us all.
	Now I stumble blindly;
	Yet, someday,
	I shall see
	With eyes that would shame
	The soaring eagle.
	And more, not only
	Will I see,
	But I shall understand
	All that now
	Beclouds my life and soul.


© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

Previous Poem Return to poem list. Next Poem