What do I know

What do I know

Of life?

The stuff that

Invades my days,

Infects my dreams

And promotes such

Weariness.

My temperament overwhelmed

By its poison.

Should I know?

When so much

Is demanded of me.

The expectation

That age brings wisdom,

When in truth,

Of which I find so little,

Age brings only wrinkles,

And the answers

You may seek

Are as distant now

As they ever were.

Look to yourself,

It is there,

Within you,

And leave me to my

Own deliberations

As the devices of my mind,

Twist and turn

In a winding down

Of their own activity,

Seeking a peaceful reconciliation

Where they can chunter

On and on,

In idle conversation,

Seeking a friendly persuasion.

I wonder if this

More gentle meander

Will, with less direct

Confrontation,

Bring me closer

To the clarity you seek?

Who am I to say,

When the words

I have to speak

Are often further

From the truth

Than they were yesterday,

And I care

So little for this,

That my leaning

Toward uncertainty

Is ever more convincing.

My sureness,

If it exists at all,

Is one of touch and feel,

For truth,

Rather than a deeper

Understanding.

And I am steeped in

vague tolerance

Of ignorance,

And compassion,

For my growing

Lack of progress

In this journey

Toward completion,

Whatever that may be.

And who am I to say?