He’s not a wicked man, whose life is thrown
Into the filth of vice, a toxic waste
That eats a life or twists it to a brawn
Of some demented Hulk who man-flesh tastes.
He merely lives – a quiet, desprate shell
That with grasping success flies for a toy,
Some spark of novelty to stave off hell
Though for a little while. Devoid of joy,
For years his actions getting what they seek
Yet getting nowhere, he is found alone.
For he who is not rushing toward the peak
Along his path, has no life-spring, not one.
How different’s he who’s drunk from living springs,
And, seeking God, will not stop for mere things!