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
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