The Existence of Choice

God's earth shall always take me back. It shows me every type of oddity in human form and, though indivisible with His being, selects one for me from which to start again But, if He can see the future, and deign which road to take, is my life not fated? no longer free? Just following the flight of a guided arrow. Where daily choices are lifted away, to be supplanted by tracks of straight-lined steel. Never to taste a simple lie pass my lips that truths tapestry cannot amend, or feel the frisson of a risk unjudged. Neither speed one's car, just to steal a second or two of an unknown future and do with that time as I will. All because. And there are those who still had rungs to climb. Whisperers that never found a voice; shouting distant calls, but possessing no time to hear it's echo. Whereas my burden is to live ambitious dreams, that wait upon a weaving carpet. And it's not by choice that I smell the ripening of age. Or touch a skin that rests upon a sunken frame, like the crumpled folds of a tired sheet lying upon a worn out bed Neither is it my choice to touch a ladders end and feel no rung beyond it. I am no more in control than an egg in a pan of boiling water, incandescent with rage and bereft of its own timer