Contemplate the innocent Bystander among the single Mass of contorting suspicions. Am I one without conditions? Without intentional suspensions Of reason, of blind fact-finding Reasons that string my furious fingers Into a frenzy of fighting chances, Lost among the encouraging dead? What drives my hand To caress the search For Truth and its intent? A feeble word among my lips In times of great distress, In times my faults impress Toward a dissonant excusing Of part and satisfaction, Of hand and heart and head And fractions Driven to the stakes Of a guilty consciousness. Compose my joy and serve my eyes With every pleasing thing, While details drive and nail my heart Through self-unrightousness. Am I saved by hand and foot Or by some Divine within? Who wraps Himself around a heart My mind can't comprehend. What drives me on as my intent Fails selfish common sense?