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Old one
with the gray hair
falling out around you,
the streams of sand
flowing up,
no matter the direction,
grits of hopes,
successes, failures,
the times you did your best,
the times you did your worst,
too late, too late
the backward look,
only the upward trudge
with the power
to make it a skip,
a struggle, a toil, a reward,
a sorrow, a joy,
the loss, the gain,
uphill the past,
uphill the future,
uphill the diverging paths,
the only moves
require your efforts,
require your acceptance,
never forced by Dominion,
the streams become rivers,
always inside you,
always your decision
to swim or sink
in the drifts and currents of life,
there all along,
the eddying, encompassing sands,
how hard and fast the charge
of freedom of choice.
God reaches out His hand,
but you must take it.
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-=ra=-
Cryssa
Anyway, enjoyed the poem. - David
You capture our condition well in these short, crisp, poignant lines; the way we are, things as they are.
John
Jasmin Horst
Regis