Just pour it out and let it surmise,
like some being with purpose to define.
It's not like it'll change much,
but the expression varies
the personal touch.

It came, it lofts, it synchronizes,
it regrets.
It'll soon be over.
Lights are coming.

They caress, they tighten,
they fool.
The whole is not complete.
It takes itself down,
and insignificance follows.

It's not like it'll let it wallow.
It's just a story after all,
told in different ways.
Over and over again.

There's not much left to say,
but whatever's to be said next.
The perplexities of life's agenda,
always moving forward.

No course.

Just distance.

Forever.

Moving...

Onward