FavoriteLoadingAdd to favorites

Foresight

written by: Amanda Eifert

@mandibelle16

 

To see,

With clarity,

Minds are required to —

Be open to possibility.

All the relevant outcomes forecasted,

Made with thinking of calculated —

Risks; all aspects bad,

Or fortunate,

To see.

——

Because,

Limited sight,

Costs lives, so we try —

To foresee what could occur.

What is likely to happen in certain —

Situations; or what won’t —

Occur; we attempt to —

See the future,

Because.

——

We live,

Blindly despite,

Attempts to know.

We can’t actually know;

As much as we make it seem,

As if we can configure potential,

But it’s all a fantastic lie.

We know nothing but —

Footsteps ahead,

We live.

——

Blindly,

Our sight fades for —

Physically our prime is —

Short; but we can see past —

Spiritually if only —

We choose to see, to look within and find,

Our immortality left,

After we pass on.

We try to see,

Blindly.

——

In life,

We desire to —

Know what happens —

Next; can we stop our fears,

Trouble from taking place or should —

We leave it in God’s hands and let,

Our worry and painful burdens,

Be His to decide,

Thy Will Be Done,

In life.

 

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:

An exploration of sight, seeing life through a clear lense and trying to see within ourselves and others with clarity. But often what we see is perceived not reality and no matter how hard we try, it's difficult if not impossible to predict the future.

Amanda Eifert

Amanda Eifert

Amanda is a freelance writer and creative writer from Alberta, Canada. She loves the sports scene in her home city, to take courses, learn new things, hang with friends and family, and do yoga. She has also had poetry and short fiction published online in Sicklit Magazine, Silver Bells Press, Her Heart Poetry on Instagram and recently in “An Anthology of Cinderella Retellings: Cinderella Retellings” on Amazon in paperback.
Amanda Eifert

Latest posts by Amanda Eifert (see all)

Read previous post:
A Wish by Matthew Arnold at Spillwords.com
A Wish

A Wish a poem by Matthew Arnold     I ask not that my bed of death From bands of...

Close