Close Call I can be such a slave To busy-ness and goals, To doing, to enacting That I'll exhaust myself. And how far away am I from addiction, obsession, disease, poverty, insanity? A few drinks, a few dollars, a few neurons, a few cells, a few molecules, perhaps? I'm a walking miracle, Like so many others, That I haven't fallen Off this precarious cliff That faces me every second. And I've often edge-danced Like a youthful fool. The gods of karma Are brutal beasts, And I've played their games Like a brainwashed follower. But the gods of spirit Have illuminated a way, And granted opportunity, To step off a train, Destined for wreckage. Spacious spirit, The door to sanity, The key to hidden wealth, The boon of equanimity, The prize of all prizes. The choice is ours. May 4, 2001 (4 of 4)