I chose this path—I'm not sure why—
a path of never-ending change,
a path of study, growth, and time
invested in creative range.
I walk this path. I'm not sure where
it leads, or even if I hold
the strength to ever make it there.
It seems so far away—and cold.
And yet, since seven years ago,
when it occurred to me how soon
the spring of life will yield to snows
that fold its memory into ruin—
since I decided then to veer
away from living check to check,
planning for a distant year,
retired bent beneath the wreck
of countless countless wasted days,
the whole of life's potential spent
on striving for a monthly gain
just tossed to mortgage, toys, or rent
until that truest treasure, time—
squandered to its very last—
is gone, and all that's left behind
are memories of an empty past—
since then I've learned and written things
that may outlive my mortal life.
I've sacrificed security
and doomed myself to endless strife
for just the thought that someday some
may part the leaves and find my words
illuminating as the sun,
and wake within them sleeping birds
of hope, serenity, and joy,
poised to spread their feathers wide
and leap across the dawning void
to freedom, held aloft inside.
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