Is ever what is at one’s center
Not that which flies to the extremes?
But are we not victims of some injustice
Mounted in concentric rings
Flying up the stairs to meet?

The longer I look up the staircase
The stronger they do weave
Themselves into my brain.
Any other would run up the steps
Without the slightest solicitation.

But do I have the authority
To take each step forward while
Weighing the equaling step backwards?
For this is true of myself,
Each step forward was placed

There to slow my accent allowing
Me to gain a better perspective
As I climb.
But is the author ever out of rule
If his conjectures are not easily read?

But 'IS' the author ever out of rule
When the pen strikes the paper
Pounding out the movements in time
Within his heart’s blessed beat?
Present, past and future all intertwined.

Or is it the reader who passes on
The least insinuation which moves the pen
Toward the reader’s direction?
Taking another step upward - are not
Hearts undressed in a begging plea

That no garment could ever
Cover that which is weak about each?
I know not how to throw the garment on.
Tis a written account of the journey
Of the heart in pursuit of the affections

That rise out of Love.
The most perplexing thing in life
Being the effort of telling
Anyone who I am.
For it seems that only to myself
Can I give a fair account.
Simplicity being of great measure
One should be able to describe one’s
Own self with in a 'single' word.

If I measure myself with one word
With my heart in my pen
Explaining all the efforts engaged
While looking up to the next step
That one word has to be ... I am

Yours...