I am controlled by gossamer strings,
Puzzling questions make the call,
Odd inquiries are part of my dance,
At the conclusion, my soul may fall.
But I hear talk like a distant rhythm,
Some old answers we kick about,
Destiny’s goal seems freely given,
Without a fateful, or complaining shout.
Is there a response somewhat remote?
Inside I feel so much alive,
I’m free to ask, and cast my vote,
To make the pattern where I might survive.
Like Pinocchio’s quest to have real life,
As a real person with mind so free,
To grasp the logic, ‘tho filled with strife,
And, know all things on land and sea.
Old strings of thought are about worn out,
I’ll grapple joyously with Cartesian doubt.
Francis Conlon is a retired and recovering teacher. For the past 20 years, he has worked as a seasonal river ranger and boat inspector at Yampa River State Park in northwest Colorado. He has published in the local Valley Voice and in Westward Quarterly. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.