Somedays I wonder
where it all went
and what it was all for.

All is lost
if the last sign is a man
seated by the wayside
drifting with the wind;
aimless, and without cause.

Where would he have gone
had he not lost his way?

Where else,
and how far am I behind?

It is all fleeting,
every moment,
every gaze.

Away from me,
away from haste.

I stand for nothing,
but there it is steadily departing,
and all I see is a mission.

Acceptable,
but without certain nothingness,
there is no hope.

Such times as these lay wasting,
draining away
on childhood ambition
and frivolity.

What more
and what pain remains
is only a moment for all else to dream,
sweetly.