All things come to those who wait.
Yet we are never sure what to anticipate.
And here I sit; it’s getting late.
I try to think; then my thoughts dissipate.
I’m barely lucid; listening to the moonlight.
Early morning shadows, unhidden, dance upon the height.
I watch them dance beyond my line of sight.
I, then, bid them farewell until the next night.
The sky becomes striated, with wondrous colors; then the sun rises.
What things this glorious day will bring, I can only surmise.
I hear a bird hail me; so I watch as it flies.
I see a rabbit on the grass and away he shies.
I look up into the deep sky of dark.
I feel as though my life is so feral and stark.
I am as an overgrown forest awaiting just one spark.
Many are those who tried to find me, but always they missed my mark.
Looking around I begin to search inside.
I know not for what I am searching; yet I can feel it still, though it hides.
As one who is by himself and alone; in himself he confides.
He has his ethos and through life he abides.
He is his own adjudicator on his own continuum.
Ambling through life, looking for love, ad infinitum,
He ceaselessly works on his own decorum.
In his heart rages a fierce and constant forum.
The sound of many voices flows through his head, lulling him to sleep.
He wakes to the voices, and gratuitously he begins to weep.
He then goes on, and like a man upon the height, he leaps,
Taking in the world, looking for some small thing to keep.
The voices, they flay him, screaming to go faster.
They seek to control and guide his steps; yet of himself only he is master.
They spur him on, towards inevitable disaster.
He refuses to listen, as the voices grow ever vaster.
They, then, disappear and silence reigns.
Were they imagined, or are they real? Is he insane?
The memories of them begin to wane.
Then he is alone; the silence becomes maddening, and now comes the pain.
His body is exhausted and he aches, oh, how he hurts.
He tries to reckon, but his mind starts to skirt.
For a fleeting moment he is as a child playing in the dirt.
Without a care in the world, the end of the vision is quite curt.
He is himself and alone; he wonders, was it a dream?
He hasn’t the answer, what does it all mean?