A beat poem with no significance

How will the will collect itself,
How can it? It must be
Master of caprice --
A matter of caprice. Pain's the thing
That pardons
Sin, pleasure
Its persuasion. Is it only
A matter of conscience,
A kind of consciousness --
To know the evil
And what's good? The will
Is force or forced, empowering
Or overpowered -- is the will
The will to do what's good,
Or that which does the good it wills?
Does it will or does it act,
Or is to will an act?
We wish for possibilities, our hope
Is bright, our fear is dark, the will
Aligns itself with what is bright
And good. That
At which hope aims is bright
And fleet, but fleet things
Fly. We only catch them if we fall,
And when we fall, we find ourselves,
In pleasure or in pain,
Among the objects of our will. The will,
Persuaded by the present, aims
At possibilities, but these
Are only possibilities
Of possibilities.