Quatrain of Questions

So it is they say,
There is many a way,
To live this life today,
That all things are grey.

Why then do caged birds sing,
If it will not bring,
The bells of freedom to ring,
It surely doesn’t lesson slaveries sting.

What is this life?
Bound up under knife,
Suffocating from strife,
While all others are rife,

With a lack of plan.
Doing things because they can.
I’m tired of living in a can.
Whirling but not moving, the blade of a fan.

There has to be,
A point here for me.
Why can’t I just see,
It in the future, present, or memory?

It’s not simply “how life goes,”
Where no one knows,
I refuse to be among those,
Caught helpless in the floes,

Of time and chance,
Living inside a moment’s glance,
Pierced by temporalities lance,
And forced by the present to prance.

There is something more,
I know this in my core,
I simply must find that door,
Or land upon that shore,

I refuse to believe,
That chance is the sieve,
By which opportunities come and leave,
Or makes the left behind grieve,

We each will serve a roll,
I refuse to be part of the shoal,
Ambling on with but a petty goal,
Till the day the bell does toll.

I serve the maker of time,
Who spoke the universe aptly as a rhyme,
And I will not believe the perpetrating slime,
Who act as if faith is a crime.

Lord forgive us our sin,
We weak mortal men,
For not listening again,
And heading our flesh our skin,

Help me my king,
To in this world lost bring,
True faith, golden, like a ring,
And let obedience harmonically sing.