Wednesday, March 21, 2007


Future paths whether they be straight or crooked;
long or short, they have misfortune of death;
they must end.
Our story is not always ours to write, pages for the mighty pen
to scribe a tale of glorious battles, loves and a terrific end.
We but live in the shadow of chance encounters: confrontations,
meetings planned, meetings canceled.
Our control is oft used without thought;
a curse of all. We murderers of fortune, dash our dreams on false insecurity.
If only our future was met with open arms. If only it could be;
We could farm our gardens of life and live in prosperity.
But this future is by nature, an act with no second take.
And we portray our purest, poorest, sweetest, most tasteless characteristics
in a comical drama that only God finds amusing
and we but muse about.