Life is not some grand equation
oft it takes more than it gives,
even all we thought we had,
fickle treasures that we reap.
Casting fragile truths to shadow,
unraveling hopes into dead ends,
misery its stock and trade,
a ledger callous to our pains.
And so we cut our losses,
move balances, dry tears to try again.
We rail against life’s calculus,
defiant students of despair.
Yet along the way we lose our sight,
trust taxed by tolls of anguish,
robbing even grace unto ourselves,
thieving hope and culling love.
Though life sells all peace as passing,
credits lost to interest rates,
more joy comes of banking on our self,
balancing to grow our heart’s delight.
Our best accounts are inner truths,
investments in our deepest dreams,
and all wisdom is but bleakest audit
that tallies least our love of self.