Choosing to feel
the actions one plays
out of determined
causes, obeys
moods underwriting
these freedoms to will
no move not unturned by
some scriptural quill…
Alas, all is vanity,
nothing’s ever new,
the future repeats
what Sol’s seen was true
before this whole story
began each life-read,
obscured by faint glory
it lies with the deed…
One little wonders
about if we’ve made
some finite difference
when once was it prayed
for but the small comforts
in knowing it all
resolved that first moment,
as a natal call…
The end was for forethoughts
no mind might conceive
beyond pale impressions
of what they’d believe
to be, as an infant
does stare onto space,
the presence transcended,
abstractly at grace.