By Bob Carney

Anxiety occluded Envy. As a vague dream, no color, blurred edges made more diffuse by the introspective, squinting eye. Ironically, I sought out William.


What Was Lost
I SING what was lost and dread what was won,
I walk in a battle fought over again,
My king a lost king, and lost soldiers my men;
Feet to the Rising and Setting may run,
They always beat on the same small stone.

What a diagnosis! Surely I was that Caruso! And, for a time, I kept solace being the Star in such a tragedy, and in such a foregone conclusion.

Accepting this poetic fate, I avoided the humble issue. For both envy and pride lack humility, and but for honest effort is humility gained, in a willingness to accept the outcome - sans "dread". So, I did not understand so well, for to seek remedy would have been to sing another tune.

With no counsel save William, and my sole self as interpreter (you see, William NEVER explained), I clung to lines of my liking and took the meanings as only I could take them - farther and farther from the Truth.

Thus out of kilter, I lived many years. Steadfastly unwilling to change. And in perhaps some anxious disease, there may be no real end. The tale of Truth is in living, now, just some better than before, making progress with a Living King, yet far from perfection.

Today, for better or worse I do write, and I am (sometimes) able to bear the worse.


The Balloon Of The Mind
HANDS, do what you're bid:
Bring the balloon of the mind
That bellies and drags in the wind
Into its narrow shed.