Indelible
We all possess this innate urge to leave our mark:
sculptors grasp the chisel;
a dog raises its leg.
Uncertain is the way - the night is dark.
Passions often fizzle.
Both fertile and futile describe an egg.
What is the force that drives this existential urge?
Answers surely varied
as whorls within a print,
and so we race to beat that mournful dirge.
Haunted, driven, harried,
our heads down, burning fuel in a dead sprint.
To be the first, the most, the best, or something more:
it is a lonely way
along a thorny path,
and none are there to help us with the door.
We keep the world at bay,
and those who offer help incur our wrath.
For those who only seek a fellow’s word of praise,
depression lies ahead
far more than times of joy.
Crushing disappointment heavily weighs
when harsh words roost instead,
dashing false pride and seeking to destroy.
The motive I think best is simply to be known.
Immortalized? Ha, no!
A rock may make a splash,
but afterwards, it sinks and is alone,
lifeless, nowhere to go,
forced to look up and watch time’s daily flash.
To walk in someone’s shoes while shouldering their pack,
to bear each other's pains:
indelible, this ink.
For though you will soon walk divergent tracks,
bound up, though not by chains,
each takes along the other now, methinks.
Beloved, notice carefully what has transpired:
indelible indeed,
imprinted on them both.
So when you’re feeling hopeless, downcast, tired,
and very much in need,
receive their helping hand and aid their growth.
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