Nice Mystery

Too much nice without pain or strife

Would name its price in cowardice.

 

Too much sin and the effort to win

Leaves the good that’s within too confused and a spin.

 

Not enough soul midst my pleasures and roles

Makes all loftier goals full of folly and holes.

 

Clinging to a rhythm I would choose on my own

Builds a man made of bone and a reason that’s flown from the unknown.

2012.04.10.1800 ©

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