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Poetry: The Prospector
The Prospector. The lone man worked, years upon years,He toiled through pain, he toiled through tears, He worked with the earth, or at least what lay in it, He searched for its riches, those that shined and glinted, He witnessed few, who ever found the best,He saw many, always barley above a jest, He knew all too well, the most beautiful were fakes, The ones of true value, required love and aches, The prize that he sought, or at least what he thought,Must be the answer, all his life it was taught, He never had luck, at least the kind that he needed, Till one great day, it came, absolutely unheeded, At first he was joyful, fearless, and sure. Till the reality of life, came to his heart’s door, To claim the great riches of which he had found, Meant leaving his search, and leaving the ground, To choose between his love, or the love of its being,To chose between his own set ways, or to let his desires run fleeting, His mind is at war, both sides are related,To destroy one, means the other is also belated, No mediator is present, nor could one aid, The choice is of him, to get his heart stayed, He knows he must choose, and may win or lose,Life, as he knows, provides him no clues, How will it end, what will he choose? To stay in his labor, or enter the new world that his heart now pursues? |
