The trajectory of life
takes on various characters
along the serpentine way
of its propulsion.
Who can know whom, how
and, when or even venture
guessing what may be revealed
at the next unfolding?
The best plans can only make
a slight dent in time or, with
an openness to variance in detail,
the full catastrophe may be realized.
What is call? What is destiny?
What is plan? What is dream?
What is mystery? What is desire?
What is hope? What is fate?
Mine initially was set by a poem's
last stanza *; but maybe not. Maybe
the call had been carried in my
mother's heart womb?
*Yield who will to their separation
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes make one in sight.
Only where love and need are one
And the work is play for mortal stakes
Is the deed ever really done for
Heaven and the future's sakes.
I don't know anyone who writes like this, nor do I have to. I write like this and that's enough. I sometimes think that it's all junk, but what of it. It's a great joy for me to write and maybe that is enough. The sled down the slippery slope of wanting recognition and fame rides in the back of my mind and sometimes even propels me forward. I'm secretly wishing someone will discover me and find me out for the genius I truly am. It may be laughable, but it is part of my ego's journey into oblivion, which is undeniably where I'm headed.