On unsteady feet I walk to the beat of unborn hope, tightly held by doubt, in a prison of stasis.
My resolve melts and drains from my body, like blood from a lamb. Haltingly I stop, trying to find hope, a purpose, strength, character.
I’ve been standing too long, lie down or move. My choices are evident, my conscious mind screams for action, but lacking honor, I cowardly move on.
No end game, I wander to the offbeat. It’s my defiance that fuels me. No one expects me to succeed, not even me.
Trudging on, I see a purpose in the contrary.
© The Autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2014