Difference

The universe is a dark, vast, engulfing expanse,

So we are highly unlikely, yet somehow by chance,

We are here, we are now,

We are kneeling to the ground,

Wishing to forces we cannot explain,

Yearning for the banishment of our bane,

That is all we are,

A collection of writhing souls on the face of a stone,

Drifting through time and space, dim and alone,

So what am I?  How ever could I be?

How could I ever claim mental sovereignty?

If we know not the own manual of our minds,

How can we ever stand the test of time?

We simply cannot, and that is the truth,

As bluntly as I can say it, I’ll spare you the couth,

Invest our existence in the memory of our piers,

For so hard as they try, they’ll wither through the years,

So we ourselves must make a stand! And brave the cold clock,

And forge our own persons! Not conjoin with the flock,

Being only part of a whole is never enough,

For you might as well lock yourself to a cuff,

And wander about always attached to the herd,

Your voice would be drowned out; no one would catch but a word.

So I have taken a stance to avoid bleak remembrance,

And grasp my own future; I’ll choreograph my own dance,

And through the ages I’ll swing ever so merrily,

Maybe not alive, but so shall be my memory,

Through writing and the times I was but just one,

And was for a moment, an individual beneath the sun,

I was different!  I was free of living prejudice,

Something all should cherish, an opportunity not to miss.

I have a strong and powerful secret to tell,

If you whisper its life, it will lose its spell,

My tactic, my strategy, my goal for this world,

Is to have something beyond me so that it can be twirled,

About the winds of time, and what better is that,

Than the soft, crisp pages of written rickrack,

Poetry of course! My mind’s bridge to this planet,

Or maybe the other way around, it depends how you look at it,

Because maybe if I do not know my own mind,

Someone else could, possibly in due time,

My words are my scripture, my solid window,

Into the catacombs of my mind, a place I don’t know,

Their sweet words of such rhymes flit off my own tongue,

Similar to the hymns of bells struck to rung,

It is their duty, their honor, to portray my spirit,

It’s the purpose of their existence, the perfect lyric,

So even though I myself am not aware of my purpose,

I can trust I am different, through my sweet, rhyming verses.

COPYRIGHT by Delora Prange