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 ©