Five

Here I lay again for the hundredth time

And think the same thing again for the thousandth time

What if I write books

And if I paint pictures?

Just more additions of a growing collection

Of billions of little things

That seem far too important

In human existence

The petty geometry of life

Reveals people to be the cheapest resource

And the most vital

In a world where slavery is scarcely extinct

And flaunting of wealth abounds

Quality still carries the torch

Were all the books and pictures burnt

There would still be left that mysterious quality

That resides in human existence

What is a picture without a viewer

Or a book without a reader?

I measure human growth with crude instruments

And they reveal to me a slow and subtle process

One that goes in depth

Beyond all our conscious thoughts and deeds

To become fully a part of our whole selves

I survey my repetitious past and recurring follies

I can do nothing but respite myself for my misgivings

And with my weak instruments attempt again

With my books or in my pictures

To better define that divine mystery