Transcendental Sonnet #1340:
Independent Happiness

A condition of childhood best reserved to one's own mother
When we are grown and all alone it never satisfies
To hitch one's wagon to a pair of shooting star-blue eyes
We ought not let our happiness depend upon another

It turns out in the end to be a dangerous estate
As I have learned as has been burned upon my heart too late
And I am left here love bereft now at the end with only wind
Between my grasping fingers as I grieve what never was

But if it never was what do I care? I care because
It was my sole reality until life could reveal to me
The profundity of the falsity of what could never be

I have accepted and embraced being rejected and have faced
I must not let my happiness depend upon another
A condition of childhood best reserved to one's own mother

+Steven Curtis Lance



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