My feet
       Set squarely in 
                          The present
My eyes
      Firmly focused on
                                      The future

The narrow way
       Seems dangerous and hard
Wrought with strife
      And lonely
But, when not absorbed in
     Seeming circumstances
Or caught up in
                wavering from
Side
         to
                  side    
It merely becomes
                      The surest, shortest distance
        Between two points

The past has passed
                          The present
                                      Is
But a fleeting gift

I will hold out for
                                     The future
And trust in
              What it brings

by Patrick Connors