A self-indulgent exercise in proper poetic verse…this in iambic tetrameter, because I apparently can’t hack pentameter.
The strength of man is not his hands,
But in the space within his mind.
Arrangements made, decisions found,
The substance of his mental ground.
These thoughts made deeds, ideas take shape
Through storms of doubt, convictions shaked.
The measure of his legacy,
Perceived by callous history,
The things he does, what he creates
Ever exist and not decay,
But added to along the way
With hope the sum can equate grace.