From the hilltops: a view funnelled yet vast
Of tapering horizons forever
Lost I am less than the sum of my past,
Substance no more than my least endeavour.
Achievements embellished by badinage.
As cacophony fades truthfulness wanes.
What remains cowers, cornered in its cage,
Odes to freedom’s flight: rhetorical chains!
Seek spirit within a cavernous shell.
Strive for a Whereness where no root takes hold.
Not heaven nor earth nor the guilt we call hell,
Will warm a dark space eternally cold.
A sharp breeze grazes my creased brow. I shrink
To the stature my apathy affords.
The hilltops are all behind me, I sink,
Mute to the vanishing point’s soft rewards;
Lush oblivion or a canvas cleared;
Utter defeat or a fresh beginning;
A new race for feet of clay onward cheered;
Always running with no hope of winning.
Am I not squalor of promise squandered?
Reluctant gaoler of crimes committed?
Loose gravel on pathways left unwandered?
Lingering despair of dreams unrequitted?
Am I not incomplete; a fragment torn
From God, my Siamese twin of the soul?
If death equals all, must I be reborn?
Abuse one more chance to render me Whole?
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