© 2016 Steve King
All rights reserved
Impossible it seems to find a way
that measures what so subtly resides
within the conscience and the patient heart.
I hoped these written findings would endow
new meaning for the questions sleeping there,
would plumb the riddles in those hidden parts,
the motives that still linger and appease,
that stoke false pride and obfuscate old cares.
I know I’ll never satisfy what’s true
with those tendentious spirits as my guides:
they burnish all illusion and remand
the record that I hoped would since abide.
That easy road is ever on the rise,
and I must seek a pathway otherwise.
A new poem for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads