The more 
I write 
the less
I know 
therefore 
I have 
every intention 
to die 
a fool

At first the 
lake was a 
source of reflection
upon which I 
gazed and then 
it froze over 
and I stuck
clawed and scratched 
to free myself 
from icy doom
and now again 
at waters edge 
I longingly peer
past the water 
onto the distant 
shore and wonder 
how ever I 
will get there 
from over here 

If a mile
seems too far 
think then of
a foot and 
the many inches 
most things that 
happen go unnoticed 

Finding has
always been 
my purpose 
and having 
my pursuit 
but once 
now had
the joy 
of getting 
withers on
the very
vine I’d
so desperately 
planted too
much or
too little 
or not 
enough of
this and 
that and 
other things 
dried now 
just decor
of its 
once thriving 
sitting on
sill soaking 
up sun
blindly there

Oh to be 
anything other than 
was once my
rallying cry often 
wailed in darkness 
and in despair 
but now in
light filled rooms 
in this place 
of happy peace 
the question begs
like an errant 
feather poking out 
from linen duvet 
who to be
that hasn’t been