Incertitude

Perfectionist, the title given,

To the pretense of a distinct man.

What, why or who could he be?

Questions he asked himself in the dead of dark.

From the lay man, a special soul,

Characterized by his kind demeanor.

To him, nothing,

Hidden by a compassionate personality.

A lost being in the passions of earth,

Isolating the senses he possessed.

He wished for nothing, but a sense of purpose.

A path or direction to clarity, his utmost desire.

All things change at the spark of consciousness.

Was he to be stopped now?

For he began the journey of a thousand strides,

Hoping on every step for clarity to set in.

On his advance he wept,

For in as much as everything he wanted came near,

The incertitude of a man crept in.