To me it seems sometimes strange,
Though the feeling is familiar,
To hate and love a thing at once
And never know the true desire.
To discern myself has proven
The task beyond ability;
Learning my own mind and heart
Has only taught me more humility.
Like other men who came before,
I wondered of my own worth;
How could such a one as I
Be but a lesser creation of this Earth?
What contribution do I make,
What gift do I offer God or man,
While sitting alone in dim-lit room,
Another useless, lonely also-ran.
Once, did I not have potential?
A dream there was, dear to heart,
That I might prove–some day–useful;
Have I never moved past the start?
Unfortunate, I do not know my lack
And am left seeing only the effect;
With all that I know not, I know I have
An inborn inability to connect.
How can I be the only of my race
To whom this does not come freely;
Instead of knowing, loving, being,
I might paint the walls like Kurt and Ernie.
But then tonight, at twilight-time,
The Heavenly Painter showed me,
With brushstrokes of blood-red on black,
A canvas renewed each eve in beauty.
The lonely trumpeter taps away
As the evening lamps are lit,
But he gives no sign to carry on,
Or if he does, I do not hear it.
What now, my oldest friend?
Do we go on or end forever
This experiment of our life–
Our greatest and only endeavor?
Dazily stumbling, sullenly marching
Onward, we continue to press,
Against a lack of hope and will
Or chance of once-defined success.
We go—until we no longer might—
In search of a better aim;
Knowing naught but to hope and trust
That all will not be done in vain.