Sometimes I feel that I'm sleeping
Though others would claim I'm awake.
The hours are not mine for the keeping
And pleasures not mine to partake.
Life's neither a curse, nor a blessing;
For me, thus far, it is existence.
The future defies any guessing;
Its fruit is far off in the distance.
Is it feeling or is it perceiving,
This notion I've had as of late?
As life goes on, more I'm believing
In the presence of some kind of Fate:
Not a god or a sentient being
But an order, a process in time,
A pattern unfeeling, unseeing,
Yet parent to reason and rhyme,
And I feel this path of my "choosing"
Perhaps has already been made,
And I think not of winning or losing
But wonder what play will be played.
George Chadderdon © 1993