Between the dreams of old
And, those of an unknown morrow
There lies, the despondent, optimist
Me,
Waiting in silence for that which I call
My destiny
That,
Which I, frenetically,  try altering
To fit my patterns of desire,
My wishes lying stone- cold dead
And, some, smouldering bits
Of ember and fire

Till, it dawns on me that, I cannot,
Must not allow this malaise of indolence,
Just waiting for Heaven to intercede,
Overpower the senses
Else, a derived numbness will lead me to
A Wasteland ,
Degeneration.

Whether or not I can make or break
The supposedly invincible frame of Destiny,
Whether I can or not both have and eat my cake
My belief in myself must never suffer fatal injury
And,
I then strive to do that which I can and when
I fail,
Those broad shoulders in the sky
Are sturdy enough to carry me for a while,
I know.
To be or not to be, To do or not to do.

Human endeavour needs, nay demands,
This defiant attitude of a benign arrogance
That a “Reasonable” Destiny must, surely,
Applaud.

(The author is a prolific poet who has over 30 poetry books to his credit. He can be reached at ashoksawhny06@gmail.com/ www.ashoksawhny.com)