Bounds of the Within

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.