Discontentment

Discontent with the contents,
Of myself and how its spent,
How might my energies be bent,
That my mind be not rent,
Asunder when doubts arrows are sent,
Piercing under mail of my minds mint.
To be? Whom am I meant,
To be when day is gone and went.
To be? Send some portent,
Of my purpose there must be some hint.
Soon must be the end of this stint,
Of self to inadequacy lent.
It is my wish fervent,
My yearning desire urgent,
More than for gold's glint,
Or for any riches that could be spent,
To be of the value for which my life was meant.
To take this great discontent,
And forsake the false glint,
Of mammon and lucre that might be spent,
But rather to have bent,
Self upon the anvil of trial and discontent,
To have it rent and bent and remint,
Pounded by portent's poignant power spent,
By the chief architect of man's powers nascent.
So let me be set more firm than cement,
Resolute to a purpose bent,
to the purpose to which I was meant:
To serve as your man till life is spent,
To grow daily till I have encompassed all for which I am meant.