Life's major part--in brief-
is lived in the ngawing interim
a bridge to the future unknown
the cross-over from the past's every unrealised dream-

the lacuna, the conundrum, the angst
the contradiction, the mirage--it does all seem
a barren and arid land-- what's to becoming
never ever falls even to the best-conceived scheme

hence, the panting, the gasping
the longing--the darkness without a single beam
after all the struggling, striving and sighing
what's left is but the emptiness and nausea* that perennially teem.