An Idling Potential

The self that was, the self to be.
Learned of strength, ability.

They were too frightening to wield.
So instead, he chose to yield.

Yield to feelings of the day.
Yielding to a come what may.

And since then, he’s been adrift.
With little sway and little shift.

It is the place he’s set upon.
With a will that seems long gone.

He has no will; he has no goal.
There’s no one thing to make him whole.

He sits and waits, that is true.
He knows not what else to do.
…
“How will I secure release?
To feel again, make numbness cease?

I see my life from many angles.
My mind at rest, my mind in tangles.

From within or from outside.
It flows and ebbs just like the tide.

I do feel my life’s a bore.
I know not what I look for.”
…
He has a fear of success.
His fear creates paralysis.

Hitherto he barely moves.
Spends his days seeking a groove.

But never moving to the sound.
He’s tied up, he is bound.

In a life of moderation.
A burdened, cowardly creation.

Never too much either way.
Careful in the words he say.

Suns still set and moons do rise.
There is much that underlies.

A love so deep that it hurts.
Mind so still that it converts.

Converts from peace to a bore.
And from a bore to something more.

The world is moving all around.
Even silence makes a sound.

He moves because he has no choice.
His being must be given voice.

Expansion rumbles in the bones.
Prompting him to parts unknown.

What he learns, what he finds.
Struggles that he left behind.

It’s the root of his pain.
A Midas touch but far more plain.

All his struggles turn to peace.
A peace from which there’s no release.