The monk perches upon cold stone,
basking in sunlight and dew,
meditating upon nothing alone,
no thought does he pursue.
The archer stands in the field, upright,
his only target set in sight,
he draws, his muscles tense,
without a whimper, without pretense.
I am not so fortunate.
I stand between one and none,
my thoughts web about, oft undone,
by forays to frequent, clarity too rare,
so much to grab, so little to spare!
Ah yes, clarity.
'Tis what I meant to speak about.
Clarity for me is an elusive fix,
is often lost amidst the mix,
with my targets to hit, aims to fulfill,
"What am I to do?", I wonder still.
To know one has a hundred preys,
behind one's back, ahead in the day,
clarity promises a lot when it does strike,
to reveal but explain, be both heavy and light.
Realization arrives as a packaged gift,
filling the holes, bridging the drift,
bringing the greatest outlook of all -
I haven't done it yet,
but at least I have,
a problem to solve.
