If I could see
from you to me,
no telling who
I’d try to be

I’d like to think
I’d be the same,
but in a blink
I’d play that game

I’d scale that sky,
I’d wish that wish
O goal on high,
O golden fish

That slipp’ry slope
pure snow that blinds
with radiant hope
our mortal minds

So how to fish
without that pole?
O dirt of wish,
blot not my soul

And so my goal,
succinctly put,
is to be whole
without that soot

Yet in this life,
so soon we blunt
our sharpened knife
in hapless stunt

to be the man
and nothing more
Plan or no plan,
who's keeping score?

If I could see
from you to me,
could I be free?
Why try to be?

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Copyright © 2006 Bill Brent