The future holds in its hands, nothing.
In the copious time I’ve held my gaze at it
All I see is this white place,
A docile sheet of paper laying on a desk.
Sometimes there are lines draw across it
As if tempting me to fill them with words I do not have.
Maybe that’s why I keep looking backwards,
And no, not in a simple glance over my shoulder either.
My entire being faces the past and everything it encompasses.
In it I see the riches of moments and the spoils of nostalgia.
It is quite a view.