The Course
“You must not serve an other’s dream,”
so said The Man when lately asked,
“your soul drinks from a different stream
that spills the life that soon shall pass.”
His words did taunt the untrained ear
and felled me prostrate on the ground
arousing me with poem, this prayer,
that I have humbly written down:
“Wind-withered arrows split the air
and meet their target straight and true;
if only fate could likewise snare
the future coveted by you.”
“Such dismal thoughts of wasted time
keep chipping at the marbled brim
the jagged rocks they leave behind
will someday trip us up again.”
“Rest easy in the silent search
for all too soon we stand fulfilled
while ecstasy from one’s rebirth
ignores the young and weak of will.”
“Oh, king of your inner domain,
ruler of your own remorse,
remember that we live again
still free to choose or change the course!”
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