Consumed by deadlines.
Buried in unmet dreams.
Burdened by rejections
that press me farther downstream.
From beneath the water,
I greet the stones with a grin,
for it takes water in your ears,
to hear the voice within.
The Whisperer makes to speak,
and tells the wearied me,
that the things for which I labor
hold not my identity.
The essence, the potentialities,
the soul, and the heart,
your daily triumphs and your failures
hold not even part.
Faith, Health, and Other Musings 