Life’s A Stage…A Dozen Acts (of Faith?)

Potential life is not a stage

through which we mortals pass.

It is instead an empty page --

accumulated mass.

More than a promise unfulfilled

and less than a desire.

It is a blaze whose heart has chilled

and yet must still be fire.


                Talent in its latent form 
                   is genius in disguise. 
                Looking out for hidden lairs 
                  with disenchanted eyes. 

                 Slothful from its infancy 
                  and idle now its grown. 
                Exertion seems a lofty goal 
                   too easy to postpone. 

                Procrastinating out of fear 
                  reclining in its coffin. 
              Perhaps it lost the will to move 
                from pausing once too often.


             Insulate me from myself 
                lest I should come to harm. 
               Fill my gut with self control 
                  then take me by the arm. 
                 Determination my defense, 
                 my single pledge and vow. 
                Brings me from the precipice 
                 and back to here and now. 
                 Vague conclusions terrify 
                   and weaken my resolve. 
                 Condemning me to turpitude 
                  and sins I must absolve. 


          Quiet sighs are no disgrace 
                but cruel past all measure. 
               They seek to set a faster pace 
              and bind all sense of pleasure. 


               Urgency of feeling; 
                   Depth of grim resolve. 
                  Rarely does it hesitate 
              when there is a riddle to solve. 
                 Insistent force of nature, 
                  compulsive act of faith. 
                 Honored by a point of view 


                A lack of soul is no excuse 
                for a senseless act of will. 
                Humans stand a better chance 
             when they fight the urge to kill. 
                  Call it sport or hunger; 
                 perhaps it's just insane. 
              The net result is loss of life; 
                   a savage new terrain. 


          A chance encounter with an urge 
                  so steadfast in its zeal 
               can only serve to pluck a soul 
                 from out its earthly wheel. 
             And once a soul has been apprized 
                 of beings with such power. 
             Its earthly plane seems imprecise 
                  and weaker by the hour. 
            The fate of souls so blessed by fate 
                is filled with grim despair, 
              that in their earthy mortal plane 
               they'll sink for lack of air. 


           Left alone by acts of God 
                and driven by acts of will, 
                 a soul must seek its answer 
                 before its heart is still. 
                 Hurt by missing artifacts 
                  and empty recollections. 
              The soul must form a new defense 
                from out its own rejections. 


               Each answer that we undertake 
                 is but a means to question 
               the fabric that we contemplate 
               when seeking self-expression. 


           Sadness is a state of grace, 
                    a melancholy virtue. 
               It etches lines into your face 
              then charges forth to hurt you. 


             Befuddled and bemused; 
                  bewildered and betrayed. 
                 What a shame to be abused 
                when such a price was paid. 


            Discouraged by delusion; 
                   and disturbed by disarray.
                Describes the sad conclusion 
                   to such a dismal day.