As one ambles across the rolling landscape of life
Staggering in contemplation on which paths to choose
Sometimes stumbling over one's own feet,
Lost in a concentrated muse
Oft times forgetting to look up from such a dejected gaze
Upon the face,
One can FEEL the warming sunlight, but can't see the fantastic rays
Caught in a mental fog
As if each footstep presses deeper into a miring bog
Of doubt and confusion:
*Is my lot forever fated for exclusion?*

But, reeling in this intoxicated state
Only serves to further repress one's fate
When heavy sighs even eclipse a robin's sound
When it looks like stark and withered ground
And when hope seems bleak and shallow
The sowing field is not infertile......just only lying fallow.