A Question

My life is a question;
The answers are slow in coming.
Now, more than ever
I consider the merits of surrender,
Not to Death,
But to the will of Fate.
My expectations have been like
Black festering boils on my skin;
Fate has been far kinder than I.
Does this sound familiar?
Hardly a rare case, I suppose.
We all sit at the dawn of a cybernetic Renaissance,
And parts of me are strewn in three worlds:
The farmer's past, the tread of horses' hooves,
The spreading of white sails on the dark blue main;
The low rumbling of cars down the narrow streets
Lost in the eerie twilight of the shadow of skyscrapers;
The future, the question of questions,
Holographic fantasies flashing through Cyberspace;
And I don't quite know who I want to be,
Who I ought to be.
I only know that I want what all men of all times
Have wanted:
To be happy, fulfilled,
To be an island of meaning in the chaotic ocean
Of existence.

George Chadderdon © 1996