For my yoke is easy,
and my burden is light.
Somehow life is a burden,
an unseen burden,
hanging either around your neck
or around or inside your heart.
These shadowy burdens lift, float,
waver, wane, and bear down, as
the tides of life ebb and flow.
Life takes on many colors, from a dark dreary grey, to a prismatic cartwheel of
gay colors varying in density and length,
as life's situation shift, as emotions move, change, as inner and outer factors appear and move on, leaving whatever residue the beaches of my life accept or cling to.
Somehow the effort seemingly is just too much
or useless to reject the waste of life,
even knowing the disaster that submission
to the useless brings.
Why is misery so easy to accept
and optimism so difficult to apprehend?
Are the powers of darkness too intense,
to the soul that carries the burden of love
that finds the fulfillment of that love
and too tangibly to get hold on it?
Are the better things of life too hazy and intangible?
Do we really know the better things?
Who can measure them?
Who can weigh them?
Can we hold love in our hands?
If not, how do we know we have it?
How do we know if it is slipping away,
if we do have it?
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