By Ed Ahern
Waking’s spun with webs of urgent lure
Sleep is shriveled dreaming marred by fear.
Life allows the walker nothing sure
Or level path to others once held dear.
Many grasp at getting days with hope
Moments still and without vice and shame.
A little space to reassess and cope,
A quiet calm of mind, a gentle flame.
Many cast themselves aside and rot
And wave away this chance to reemerge
The winnowing is fine, the chances not,
For those who see themselves as lost and purged.
The way is narrow, dimly lit and rough
But offers passage clear and good enough.