My days are spent in bouts of
Living in limbo,
The search for meaning, love,
And the need to know.
What am I doing here?
What is my task?
What is it I most fear?
Why must I ask
What should by rights emerge
Because I care enough to seek the Urge?
Sometimes it seems to me that life is spent
In fruitless, frenzied search for renaissance,
Without first grasping what my roots have meant,
Yet reaching past, for what can only haunt
And leave me, hurting, holding emptiness,
Instead of letting my full heart confess:
I yearn to find the gift that I,
And only I, can give, before I die.