Illusions Of Me
P
Peter S. Quinn
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Closed eyes are longing for something,
That isn't here with us yet, or anymore;
To its inner self and its soul it’ll sing,
Of what it aspires for its own deplore...
But knowing it still, this is of the unknown,
Unborn perhaps, though not uncertain;
A thought for a moment yet not fully shown,
The distances of any dream behind a curtain.
Aims like these are close in their stance,
Like the past is sometimes: a moment still here;
Like it is advancing for its second chance,
It didn't have in the past tense year.
Knowing what they are, I dare not defy:
A thought for the moment I forgot not yet;
But as for all inner grasps - how uncertain am I,
Perhaps it's only an illusion that got backset?
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