Human Condition

A state of limit, always constrained,
A state of being, ever in pain.

Beauty of life’s not in the creation.
It’s transcendence of that aberration.

The beauty is not in how I am free.
It’s shouldering burdens with a touch of glee.

Boundless potential, but my time’s finite.
Tremendous effects to a-chieve despite.

For there’s always limits, there’s always pain.
Always a path to break through them again.

The sense, what I do, with my life’s rendition.
A meaning, perhaps of my human condition.