A feel for the strife I see,
While blind to that which lies in me.
A trait common to them all,
The trusty rue in the call,
The heart of all of these ordeals,
Is the way they make me feel.
I know not what I’m reaching for,
But I must reach, and nothing more.
Toward a what, a why, a how,
A move from a moving now.
To hope, to possibility.
To meeting responsibility.
Where I end and it begins.
Beyond the bounds of within.
Yet such bounds are not so clear.
So, I offend in how I steer.
This the sin of an existence.
And the source of most resistance.
Answers lead to yet more questions.
Wrongs arise from good intentions.
© 2020 TheRememberings Ltd