The Year.

Spaced out loves,
far too many,
but none, the extreme,
and most,
careless.
A noble lover,
lost to a virtuous cause,
guileless, nonetheless,
walking on,
walking on.
Drifty veils,
but none worn
in mock cover,
or closed pretense.
A rush of lights,
speeding past,
in a spaced out vacuum,
too spaced out to contain all,
yet,
containing little,
rushing past,
rushing past.
Mountains, you can touch,
stars, you can see,
water, you can drink,
and swim in too,
swimming naked thoughts away,
a childlike lover,
alone in peace.
A haze of smoke,
lost in a maze,
too mazed out to spot true love,
or true ambition.
A haze of smoke remains.
Eyes that see,
yet refuse to recognise,
the blood running the hearts of men,
out to kill,
the spirit young and wild,
and wilder away, she does,
the running thoughts,
the running thoughts that sleep,
and awaken the deepest desires,
fervently put to sleep,
by the ungrateful host,
a silly lover, is she.
And so it ends,
without as much as ending,
and began, thus,
without as much as beginning,
a start, looked forward to, not,
an end, not cared for.
If not a limbo,
where would she be?
Oh, where would she?