My Own Way The resolve contained therein is greater than any had pondered, Yet the young theurgist inside flounders endlessly In a search for such a solid state As to render no recompense of choice. Enough with fancy words, since that's I'm sure all you heard. The back and back of the brain confounds me And for all things will make me late. In the distance I hear everyone's singular voice: "Turn back, this isn't what you (meaning 'we') want." Selfish! To them I say to go away, My path being one in which I'd like to stay. Meaning is something for which we all hunt, We can't all live to end with a wish. At some point I'll be old and grey, Happy that I've made— my own way.
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