In The Absence Of An End

His fingers,
Outstretched,

Straining,

Desperate
To sense beyond
His emptiness,
His reality…

But nothing tactile,
Nothing new,
Nothing to grasp…

Just the vacuum
And desolation,
Limiting his world
To the sameness,
And sadness.

Perhaps wrongfully,
He envisioned
A different place,

A different world
For his heart
To call “home.”

But there was
No horizon for his eyes
Upon which to dream.

Just the nearness
Of nothingness,

Defining his now,
Prescribing his certain future.

His fantasy of her,
Of his forever,
Would remain
Heartlessly that…

A fantasy.

The monotony,
The loneliness,
The emptiness,

All assured,

In the absence of an end.

 

 

© 2018 W. C. Stacia, Jr.

 

14 thoughts on “In The Absence Of An End

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