Paint my way through the field in time
Where I don't have to fight quite so much
Over little things that matter now,
But probably won't in the stretches of eternity.

Buy, buy, who will buy
My meager skills for a day's pay?
The sands grow small on this side of the glass
For the work that was given me now.

It was a gift, a gift, but it will eventually end,
As all good things eventually do--
I just sit and wonder in the back of my mind
when it will all come together.

Even in my dreams, the Sandman mocks me.
I wake as if I died during the night
and some necromancer raised me up to do his bidding.
Not so much stiff in body, but in mind
as I sift fog and cobwebs from my consciousness.

Am I a zombie, just 'going through the motions'?
I cannot tell, for I cannot seem to get anywhere
where I really want to go, in purpose
in meaning.
Perhaps it is a cocoon or chrysalis I must break.

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