Imperfectly bound,
in this our mortal coil.
We yearn for the edge,
knowing all has been lost…

lost to time and tide
and tired eyes
that could not bear to see
the stumbling path we tread,

the hands we reached for
that withdrew, unawares,
as through the empty space we fell,
a tear for lost humanity.

We know not why, or where, or how,
just that we are, here for now—
with breath that shivers through us
and holds the strength to act

if we knew but some just cause,
some cold idea of truth,
that shone through space as dark as night
to lead us out of our youth—

our bright eyed dreams of purpose
or fiery throws of fear,
both alike in uncertainty
and both leaving us year by year.

Imperfectly bound,
we feel our own rough edges
and know there should be more,
but have not sense to see the way

to guide our ships to shore
and reach the rest we dearly need,
the place where all is still,
where questions do not linger
and we have no need to know.