In one's wake

We run through this world.

Or we fly, or swim.

And make a large wake,

depending on one's whim.

I tread through the water,

not even deep.

But the farther I go,

the more weariness I keep.

So far my wake is small

and disappearing behind me.

So small, so small.

All I wonder is "what could this mean?"

Am I to go through this realm . . .

Unsatisfied? Confused?

Questioning? Faltering?

Unwanted? Abused?

Or am I to go,

And see the unseen.

Leave nothing behind,

Is this forseen?

I stop for a moment.

The seaweed rides by

on the waves.

Their freedom makes me cry.

In their simple life,

They are content.

Unworried, unhurried.

While we stand in torment.

Is that what life is?

Just one long dread?

Just to go on unsatisfied,

and prepare for death?

"No." Something said.

"Nothing like that.

But what is REALLY is,

Well, you're on your own with that."

That voice is still inside

to this very day,

It's what keeps me going,

and spreading my wake.