The Center Found

I fall and rise again, the more to fall,

And call myself a hundred epithets

Mocking the stupidity of it all.

What good is sorrow, what use are my regrets?

But change is coming, I can feel it stir

Beneath the clay-formed figure that is me,

Or so I believe, though frequently I err

And wantonly miss the call of destiny.

Above the resolution there is prayer,

For one must learn to stand on higher ground

To live and breathe the consecrated air,

Cast off appearances, the center found.