But am I running from that I cannot? Escape from oneself is ever brief.Before we are again confronted,Hunting for relief. Yet still I follow my perilous path To wherever it might be leading.And well it may, onto something new,And strangely more inviting. Or perhaps not . . . But who's to know, not I as yet The fate of anyone on this Earth,I wouldn't like to bet. For life can lead in many ways Often now undesired.Fate can deal a cruel hand sometimes,But we play on, cold and tired. And art is born of life Hard, dejected and trodden. Hence emerges exquisite beauty,And some direction from the coffin. Finding it is a difficult thing Sometimes left without thought.But time it ticks, and years they fly,I'm sure it can't be bought. So we search, as do IF or things that bring on the 'morrow.The weak are those who don't pursue,And languish in their sorrow. Happiness is that I chase And hope to find someday.I'll count the means again I'm sure, There is always another way . . .