It’s such a self-defeating ruse
To play the game of win and lose.
The human spirit’s subtlety
Defeats all games of strategy.
A life that seeks to “reach the goals”
Creates such gaping, tawdry holes.
At night you’ll wake in salted tears
Surrounded by repeating fears,
Until the day the grasping ends,
And then, see how your true heart mends.
A shoot, a bud, it rises sure.
The gentle way becomes the cure.