Out There
What is it out there
that colors our soul at will
that sometimes takes our hand
that sometimes drags us across an endless stretch of rusty rapiers?
What is it out there
that waits in the darkness for us to falter,
that thinks our will is but a matter of time,
that wonders at the pain we willingly endure to reach the end?
What is it out there
that is so patient
as to sleep while we run,
to laugh as we cry,
to patiently wait with outstretched hand
as our motion slows to a skeptical crawl
longing to find out
what they want us to know is out there?
Is it possible we’re ready to dismiss the charade,
the delusion of all that is out there
could be but a mirror
of that which has been known within all along?
Love ya!
Jane
Let us hope that we come to our senses before we completely ruin our nest and could no longer live here anymore. I certainly hope those dragging their feet take a look at what they are doing before they pass off this mortal coil.
Ron