Within the sphere that we can touch there is
The outline of illusory control;
In check marks, or in answers to the quiz,
The thrill of power resonates. The soul
Is born to yearning, stretching; not to harm,
But to increase our aptitude, until
We go beyond what eye can see, or arm
Can compass in, to that which kindles will.
For we would always have what we will have:
Perimeters and boundaries ignored,
The things or friends or gossip that we grab
That signify us greedy, vain, or bored —
And yet, within arm’s reach, we miss, I fear,
That all we’d ever needed was right here.