Like proverbial roads, I was not chosen,
despite a will with grave intention, desire
with practiced, calloused hands; of talents
nature rarely gives to intricate inventions
favoring the thoughtless rose, the vacant
star, the mindless, howling winds. To be
is not the question, nor is decision found or
granted from within; the conclusive opinion
determined by a raw, imperfect accident...
initiates the inquisition: how and when and why?
If moral is a story, if dictums teach the halfwit
how to live, if faith is such a blessing then
what purpose can we have for meddling with
oceans, measuring the sky, constructing theories,
making queries, rearranging heaven for
the everlasting, contemplative "I"?
* Send your self-addressed propositions to:
10001 Confusion Ave. Suite RU4- Real
Backlogged, Rhode Island 77660
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