Poem: Again, This Boundary

Again, This Boundary

What good is there in improvement
if doing better at the task itself
does not correlate to obtaining
the desired results?  Why should I try?
Why continue with any of it at all
if what is required to gain is beyond grasp,
is there, but cannot be obtained,
can only be bestowed, can only come
when it comes, and with no reason,
without consideration for what is already?
It is impossible, now, to turn another way,
to choose a different path that is equal:
this has become the way, my heart is here,
buried deep in the dirt, tendrils grasping,
twisting like roots, pumping the deep red of life,
pushing it forth here.  I am of this, now,
will not seek any other way, will not
or can not, or is that not important?
I do not know which it is, know less
what is better or worse if either,
but I know I am here, and this place,
it is the place I must be, but
I must also find a way 
to make it flourish, to grow
not only in the tasks themselves
but in what they bring.
That must come to be,
though I will always be told
it is not possible, have heard it.
It must not be so.  If it is,
this place is dying, is gone,
is already not a place 
that I should have been,
was never a place to come.
But I cannot leave it behind, now.
I have labored, have worn myself,
have trekked and built and studied,
have worked at this, but what for
if it is never to flourish 
except alone, except in absence.
I have bound myself
to this place, to these acts,
I have bound myself,
before I knew,
and now: it must be otherwise,
what I cannot change
must not be as it is.  The solutions
are all the same in impossibility.