Where have I been all my life;
Listening to my heartbeat, enjoying the rhythm,
The fervor and passion of nothing;
The hope of another day...and then another,
Waiting for the damage that follows age.
Purpose has always troubled me.
For what is the mission we are suppose to accept;
To carry out, to accomplish beside self support;
And coloring inside the lines for the controllers of life.
Maybe our self portrait is distinctive, but more likely, abstract.
As my body begins to slow, I don't know, I'm still looking,
Waiting patiently for that which is not.
Today, I need my way laid out by the Divine
Or I will continually drift along the lazy river.
Is it time for a complete surrender?