The season turns again.

The year ends.

Some are born into

An unknown world,

Others round the bends

Whose cul-de-sacs close

The roads to regrets and amends.

Yet, the tired bone

Must live on

To the time of the ash,

Contending as if old age

Could still encash

From a hollowed life

Particles of knowledge

Unavailable to the all-knowing brash.

Let not a terminated future

Draw breath from the past,

But leave the pupils open

To an effulgent vision

That may last

Beyond the going hence.

At the moment of going,

The cul de sac may open to something vast.

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