The Ideal of More

My brain in a toil over
a spectrum of events,
drawing from within,
into the white light
shedding on my soul.

Would I give up, here, now
depression's vacuous path for
that which cries meaning
and carries out the depth
that supposedly lies
within my fading mind?

Gently nudged under sun
to inspect each flaw
with aching desire to
redesign the face of
my whole history
or even attempt to make
of it a sense of help
to others with need.

Precariously look
up into the white sun
and burn red under light
of feeling that such sense
may never be wrought
of these converging highlights:
need to write,
hellish past,
determined strength,
and belief in
the ideal of More.