What purpose brings me here?

To breathe to sleep to live and die?

Should I contented be with shallow furrow,

halfway dug by dragging my heels?

Or, should my spade press hard through clay to chip against the stone?

What set my pace?

Should I contented be with muddy vision,

halfway clear shielded from the sun

slipping smoothly through the years

plump idle hands sweet smiles of nothing?

Or, should my inner wheel churn with crimson fury

spinning endless visions sparks,

shooting to the stars burning eager fingers

yet ….. holding tightly

Riding ….. the comet of my dreams?

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