Paradox

In the quiet I reside
Yearning for something.
I know not what; alone.

The road seems ever
Long, yet terminally
Short; paradox of grief.

Memories of what is
To come conflict with
What might have been.

Absurd abstractions;
Certainty cast in doubt
By tendrils of curiosity.

Chants of lyrics never
Uttered fill the secret
Places of doubt. Cry.

6 December 2008 by Glen Alan Woods