I sit at my desk and ponder my life; asking where and who I am
Desperate to divine between lifes truths as well as mankind's scams
Politics, religion, matters of economics, I find it all a sham.
A nation speeds to ruin. Slaughter seeks the lamb. I ponder my own plight.
All matter of values, superficial and divisive - and utterly all finite
Of all things spoken, of all things sought, such as greater wealth.
I ask what things I shall ask of mankind, what to expect of myself.
Ears to hearken, Eyes to observe, Divine truth from common stealth
Deepest gratitude for my honor and my health and some small measure of might.
My love for friends and family, alas they are finite.
An end shall come by means cast aside. Dare not discern the wrong.
Time repeats towards Roman feat and justice abides the strong.
Widsom is hushed by the rage and rush and passioned wave of the throng.
Shrouded truth evades our song leaving in its wake a blight.
I cannot perceive its width or depth - I declare it to be finite.
Then to what end, from what begin, the midst a drunken swoon.
As we wrestle with fate having tender grasp from hands so roughly hewn.
As some march East, others march West, placing faith in hopeful boon.
I pray some awakening come so soon to bring darkess forth to light.
I search myself for reasons why - those reasons too are finite
Or shall I cringe beneath a bed, or paint my doors in crimson red
The next report which speaks of doom would rip hairs from one man's head.
I fix my gaze to my own hands and the troubles borne instead.
Some living in fear with nameless dread, knowing neither depth nor height
Driven by a carnage yet unseen - such fears I pray being finite.
And what of love and what of mercy and what of a justice blind.
Shall I expect the next man's love, to partake in that he finds.
Shall I strive against him, friend for foe, presume no oath to bind.
Will I earn his respect. Will he love my mind? Will he honor me by right?
I would that it weren't yet it seems true that this too is finite.
As well it will be with my own spawn - each day demands they grow.
To all the things to which they strive, with their own backs they must row.
To what aim and with what love, within themselves they only know.
And with what speed, either fast or slow, perhaps heavy perhaps slight
I dare not tell them, I urge them on knowing their gains be finite.
In this world of love and duty, of want and precious gain.
Full of obstacles to overcome and pleasures from which to abstain.
We finite things, full of rage and beauty upon which our eyes do train.
We flee the hours, spinning sun to rain, and unawares day to night.
In this world of finite things - I accept that I too am finite.
Yet my will rages on, a race from regrets for things left still undone.
A battle yet thunders amidst mankinds blunders those battles yet not won.
The swift are trodden, the strong long passed, I endure and so I run.
Be it darkest night or brightest sun, or be it nameless fright.
I gather my strength to resist each pain - for they too are finite.
By JAPOC, February 2017