Far

I am far from home, far from belief in magic, from belief in tomorrow. Foolhardy wishes are vanished. Maps drawn in the sand, washed away by the tide, the final leaves of autumn, fuel no foolish notions of spring's reprieve. Sentiments of poetry, art, paper and stone hopefulness are betrayals of dreaming. Tomorrow is a bland sunrise, no noon day secrets argue with curiosity, and an empty and absurd illusion frames sundown. No new season beckons, only night is left, cold mystery, damp velvet darkness, and until then, the comfort of defiance.