Comfort

Woe to the man who thinks his highest worth

his ability to conquer meaningless hills

How he strives and strains to satisfy the world

Giving the life given him to lackluster thrills

The chains he wears he cannot feel

For they lie unshaken in comfortable scars

Confined to a cell of sad but certain controls

He knows not the freedom past his unshackled bars

Woe to the man who does not respond

To his maker when given eyes that can see

Woe to the man who knows his mirror too well

And still himself has yet to see