#903 On The Weariness of Becoming

The day gave oxygen, my spirit soared,
I thrived amongst the crowd, alive, awake —
Then came the evening, emptied and ignored,
Too drained to think, too spent for thinking’s sake.
I am a creature made for voices, rooms,
For human warmth and questions, give and take —
Yet every dawn some other sorrow looms,
And every choice another self must break.
The future calls across an unknown sea,
The weekend beckons like a distant shore;
My very human fears I cannot flee,
Though grace and equanimity I swore.
    Between the man I am and what’s to be,
    The miles of tiredness stretch — and still, I see.