Wednesday, January 10, 2007

A Sonnet to Futility

xii.

I'm not born to greatness. That molecule
Of genius wasn't given to me. I
am neither as well-bred nor as well-schooled
As my serious nature would imply.
I cannot heal the world nor find the truth
in a grain of sand. Time is mystery,
Ever so bright and undarkened in youth,
That in me grows cold and black as the sea.
I don't know life's lessons. Mistakes are still
Made, frivolous imperfections still track
All endeavor, and each day tests my will
To continue though life's splendor they lack.
Yet of all my failings, the one most true?
Despite all else, I yet believe in you.


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