I am: yet what I am no one knows,
Some may forsake me like a memory lost;
Some say I’m weird, some say I’m unique.
I am the self-consumer of my woes,
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;
And yet I am, and live with shadows tost
Into the nothingness of scorn and clatter,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither the pulchritude of life nor joys,
But the cosmic shipwreck of my life's esteems;
And then the dearest, that I loved the best
Are strange nay, rather stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man has never trod,
A place where woman never smiled or wept;
Undoubting and untroubled where I lie,
The grass below above the vaulted sky.
If we but shape our fate,
We can become the "Self" we yearn for,
Not driven by whim nor base desire,
But by the inner soul's Celestial fire.
For there lies within our inner spirit,
A "still small voice," if we'll but hear it.
It's purpose is to guide aright,
To bless with wisdom, truth and light.
Reality bites, some dull their voice by sinful ways,
By pride of heart and worldly praise,
By seeking pleasures of the flesh,
Entwining their souls in Satan's mesh.
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