In my time of being alive I have found little rhyme, little time
I have found in time that my hands cannot clench time nor even hold it for even a glimpse of time
I have found in my hands a trouble of jealousy and greediness to plunder lands that barely stand to withstand life
In life I have found a terrible ache that shakes the whole earth under one earthquake
I try and move one step to be knocked back four with doors closing and the one that is supposed to open and reveal a new and generous alternative stuck. As if with no luck to pluck me out of which I am stuck
That as if everything that I undertake, undertook, is tied and twisted in all crookedness which binds me in desperation and frustration
I have found in this distression my current and past obsessions. . .
I have found in all frustration and subordination still and unfulfilled soul
Deep in me is a person that wishes to be but cannot be
Evil and religiously at peace, both still frighten me
Because even in them who am I, and as time flies and I cannot grasp I have to ask will I ever! Be content with me
If there is a me
All that time had taught me and the world has bought for me and friends and boys have sought and thought for me to be is really and can’t be what I truly desire all to be
For life and time and death seem all as if one kind
Because death is life and time is death and life is time and time is death
For what breath do I give and for who do I breathe and is the breath, my breath even—worth it?
In my time I have found little rhyme and little time
But have I not found God?
God who is time and is rhyme . . . and life and death . . . should I not be content?
