Have we no more beginnings, ‘s the folio filled,
and the last leaf of that jumbled-up bundle been spilled?
If so, merely shuffle-arrange them until
some resembling-a-story ghosts forth from the chill
of mem’ries all frozen, constraining the will
to nutritionless, spectral, repetitive drills.
If we have a future, it’s one I can’t see;
dark forests spread flanking to gobble the light
of my eyes’ broadcast beams, which test fiction dreams,
and illuminate paths upon which my flight
occurs; stooped, eyes up, I proceed –lacking schemes–
to woods, alien, groping on through the night.
Into the Clarities 
😢
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There is no need to be sad, dear heart: one must walk through the forest before one can even discover whether there is a future at all on the other side, and of what sort it is.
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The sadness is that there is even a forest one must navigate.
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Forests require courage and resolve, though – not sadness.
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