The house falls quiet now,
Sleep has come to all but I.
Deep in the halls of the night
I wander alone, perusing the shelves;
Looking for the volume I seek,
I know it is here, somewhere.
What will I do if I find it?
Will I read the wisdom therein,
Take the lessons offered to heart?
What does it matter I cannot find it.
There is comfort ahead I sense
But not the comfort I desire.
Instead of the sought peace
I will fall to turbulent sleep.
There I will wander once again;
Now in the halls of my mind.
Searching high and low
To find meaning - to find hope?
There is no great victory;
I am resolved, resigned, satisfied.
Grand quests are for the hero,
But heroes do not seek peace.
What joy they win is in the glory,
The power, the toil, the pain.
How can we find peace,
If no risk is palatable?
Will there be only palliation?
Is perfection truly the enemy?
Is good enough truly a friend?
How will I know or care?
If life is a blank page to fill,
Can we sketch and draw and write?
Is the marginalia where we live?
Can we truly start a fire
When all the fuel is gone?
When there is only stone; cold and wet?
Through is a direction at least.
Progress, counted even only in steps,
Seems better than stasis.
The quotidien is mediocre to all?
Yes, but there are riches in the known.
Cast off and sail blind or remain?
Alone we chart this passage,
And though with others we may meet,
Mingle and grow - have and hold.
Still each square is for a single piece.
Twelve moves to mate;
Will it be the road out?