The icy hand of thought and deed long past
Constricts my heart at every step and slows
My feet to a hesitant halt. The shadows cast
By dead events blight many a budding rose.
For acts I left undone, what wasted sighs
For spite indulged, what gnaw of sad remorse;
My doubts spawn anxious fears as I analyse
And trace the stream of evil to its sources.
To break the iron gripe of yesterday
I trample on the past and turn my eyes
To morning sun whose glory will not stay,
But like a bird forever onward flies.
By stepping on the countless selves I've slain,
I reach the heights and touch the stars again.
I found this poem amongst my cuttings. I don't know the author and can't find it on Google. I have a feeling that it could be by a Douglas Baker from the early 70s. I have a note by the poem about The Nature of the Soul which Baker often wrote about. For some reason it hit a note with me today.