It’s hard to face the world without an aim.
It’s a lot like watching others play the game
As the reserve on the sidelines of the court;
Like you dropped the baton and lost the plot;
The injured ordered to the bench, off the field;
And, helpless for the moment, you must yield
To the harsh and holy hands of fate or god
Or just payment for the ill-thought path you trod.
It feels like standing here with empty hands
When you are used to fighting, taking stands.
It feels like nothing ever did make sense;
The empty weight of meaning feels immense.
It feels like seeing things for what they are
Far too late; now the vision leaves a scar
and little else.
So we seek…
And the seekers become scribes and glimpse the strings
That pull our hearts and souls in place, and run rings
Around our ribs; the things that make us tick and talk
And hope and pine and yearn in vain or faith, or walk
The earth to find or make our meaning from the space
That yawns between the gift of purposeful grace
And the despair of an indifferent god or godless world.
The scribes will write and chart the ways as they unfurl,
In scattered black and burnished embers on the ground
For the stumbling and the lost, in darkness, to be found,
And light the way.
Picture attribution: Photo, Loving Earth, Some rights reserved by Loving Earth. Copyright belongs to the creator. Use of this picture in no way indicates an affiliation with the creator of the image, nor does it indicate that the creator shares the views reflected by the text.