The Sculptor

A cold winter's morning

And there stood I

Facing my future

Eye-to-eye

 

My rose-colored glasses

Had lenses shattered

My destiny uncertain

My dreams tattered

 

My ideal of man

Departed that day

And a realistic visage

Was there to stay

 

The child died

And in his place

The universal struggles

Of the human race

 

My labors unfruitful

My life unstable

My works a disaster

My hopes disabled

 

This I did think

And so it would be

The length of a season

Was my misery

 

With spring came blooms

And birds and life

The rebirth of the world

The ender of my strife

 

I looked out my window

And into a field

And thought to myself,

"What shall you yield?"

 

"What seeds will sprout?

Your future is uncertain!"

This let in the light

And opened the curtains

 

It was then I realized,

"My life is not planned!

My life's a blank canvas!

My paintbrush in hand!"

 

There is no destiny

Nothing set in stone

Your life is an improv

The path your own

 

From the child

An adult was birthed

His abilities to be honed

To better this Earth

 

The child expects

The child hopes

The child waits

Then the child mopes

 

The adult does

The adult tries

From his efforts

Does he get his reprise

 

So the child's window closes

The adult opens the door

His destiny his own

His life to explore

 

So from child's misery

An adult came

To shape his future

And lift him from shame

This poem is about: 
Me

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