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Poem

In every man's dearest thoughts,
in his true and deepest self, this one thing draws breath.
In some, it blazes like a roaring flame,
indelible, unquenchable;
in others, the beast slumbers, mighty but patient -
biding its time for the precise moment to shine.

I speak of course, of how
inside each of us
there burns a pure pursuit;
that peculiar fondness of spirit
for one quest, one meaning,
one task.

Some are fated to glory,
to the skill and art of arms,
whether fell at heart or paragons of virtue;
to enslave and obtain,
or to liberate from pain -
such is the warrior's way.

Some seek guidance in divine light,
in the spreading of justice and peace,
balm and respite;
whether in a monastery, church, or abroad,
such healing souls cannot deny
the calling of the clergy.

Then there's always the craftsmen,
those masters of their hands
who turn base objects
into functional, sublime art;
in their chests beats
the heart of the artisan.

Still others are grasped
by love's ardent snare;
they worship at the altar
of affection and romance,
living and dying for their one and only,
life's boon companion.

It falls to some to voice their passions,
in words and phrases bent to their cause;
to spill their sentiments on the page
like colors on a canvas,
for others to partake of, so as
to quell their desire for sensation.

It is this last path on which I find fellowship,
with that ancient assemblage of poets;
my essence drifts into my musings,
flows with barely a whisper of a thought
into inspired expression,
the soul's manifestation.

According to their opportunity and inclination,
every man must one day find his pursuit,
'else live with regret and remorse
over a life unfulfilled;
for once known, his world is open -
ripe for the plucking, bare for the taking.

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