Blurred Focus
by Odin Roark

We weep,
We resent,
We complain,
We grumble and moan.
We suffer over what we don’t have,
We forget or neglect what we do have,
And then we sob some more.

We fail to see…

Why so many expectations drown
beneath our attachment to yesterday’s weeping,
our clinging to disappointment?

So, we ponder…

Do tears come as a result of pain,
or does pain follow as a result of tears
purged from dark caches of regret?

We brood…

What is it to hold firm the elusive gravitas of truth,
where cries of sorrow are given permission
to become the evaporating dew of acceptance,
nature’s precursor to the act of becoming,
and finally to be?

We fear…

Caressing the cheeks of reflective honesty,
where glistening blurs await to exchange
their sadness for the sparkle of joyful eyes,
where gentle laughter is allowed to echo upward,
resonate the welling up of rainbow arcs,
and bridge the gap between dismay and healing,
misery and bliss.

Such a capacity we have,
and yet…

Few offload the tear-soaked baggage,
acknowledge the sentient privilege of choice,
credit creation’s gift of the bang,
gravity’s arrangement of certain cosmic droplets,
nature’s melding of life’s forces,
time’s patient evolution,
history’s you and me
life’s ever-dependable breath.

And still…

We weep.