Careless Habit

This poem is an exercise in Talent salient
That excuses the plague
Of Idleness which gives unto the Spirit
A longing and remorseful fatigue.

Every dream is but
The breath of Talent.
Where is your impulse?
How shallow the movement
That feeds the dream,
But remains a dream.
To then, of your Will,
An impossible dream.

Raise you from your sunken self.
Only the corpse of a dream walks,
Alive but dead,
Stumbling. Stumbling. Lost...
And unfed.

Yet it does seem
That happiness takes a seat...
Denied the satisfaction of fulfillment.
Even then! the struggle persists.

Can one be happy and remain idle?
If duty is heavier than a mountain
Then pick up that mountain and be
Not troubled by its burden,
Yet be reconciled that idleness can
Be just as burdensome.

If fire gives Light yet burns
The careless hand,
Then it is a two-edged gift.
But fire is passion that gives
Light to the Vision
And heat to the dream.

Fan the flames
That they may burn hotter!
Let not the dream pass unattended
By the careless habit
Of a Fettered Day.
Even embers still hold
The heat of rage
That the fire may brightly burn engaged.