What is this quietude of thought I don’t recognize?
Is there nothing left for me to say?
Did I work so long and now this truth I must realize?
There’s nothing new to be written anyway?
All’s been said before with no new method to merchandize,
My life I spent thinking I must write to make others prize,
The importance of truth as a better way…
I worked hard to get their attention and help them rightly apprize,
The validity of those words I was driven to say.
Some, who agreed listened, while others seemed to only patronize,
Now, I wonder about all the words I worked so hard to radicalize…
Was it better to write or to pray?
Perhaps, I’m unable to capture Truth and in my many words capsulize,
The flame burning in my heart to say…
Is this thing I call art really anything? Or just my pride’s way to aggrandize…
I am older now and still, my ears open to listen, I’m willing to actualize;
Obey these words that in youth I burned to say…
Truth is full when lived, written truth partial, words not only to conceptualize.
Something I wish I’d understood on a younger day.
A more effective method is to trust, obey, and by faith’s quiet living Way, initialize