Admist a spring night in a wicked life, my body drapes over warm sheets painted a pity blue.

My thoughts are plenty, as I reminesce on the consistency of pain, misfortune, lost of promises. Hurt not so much by people---for I fear that unpredictable depth---but more so by events and the causation of life.

I visit the possibilities of difference and the richness of quality, for it's a distant place that only pokes its head and points its finger.

But inspite of it all, I am still lost for where to attribute my fervor to sustain:
The life of my genes?
Or the faith in my God?
The hope for change?
Or the endeavor of the unknown?

Those that are familiar to me frolic in a bliss of ignorance. Though, I prefer it this way; for despite them being voiced, my pains will be my pains and will only beat at deaf ears, until my own courage reigns.

Mostly, I revel not in the reality of my life. Though I take heed to its bounty and praise the light of life, the actuality and the authenticity hold true.

So, I'll just keep my struggle until Sir Life decides to break me loose off my training wheels.