I wish I lived my life like the oarsman
guiding my boat through the stream;
when I’d steer my way through troubles
however insurmountable they might seem;
Where every tug and pull at my oar
satisfies me of each little job well done;
and the end of each fulfilling day makes me
look forward to newer journeys under the sun.
Of all myriad trappings offered by life
I am but a sentient aggregate
consumer of my own purveyance
A fickle result of complicity and strife
between my actions and my fate.
Yet, you relegate me to an image
in an evanescent meeting of chance
Naivete, or hubris I ask
when you subject me, as aliens gauge
my existence from your cursory glance?