Hurriedly busied sometimes are we, schedules developed without thought of haste, sooner or later we’re caught in a spree, soul’s twisted, despised and awkwardly chased.
Tug of war is our spirit, bespectacled with dis-ease, we and life — of want to quit, desperate to appease.
Suddenly knowledge — the fight to attend, want of desire to break on through, courage designed with which to contend, battling for peace without further ado.
Slowly but surely night breaks for day, hopes are renewed upon evidence of sun, then we confidently accept what may, nothing in fear do we forlornly shun.
When we’re at harmony with nature and time, sits us we do relaxed and free, spiritually fluid we can but climb, upon wings of delight with which to agree.
© 2011 S. J. Wickham.
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