It’s not the ending that endures
But how beginning shapes it,
How every step we take
Finds tomorrow as it falls.
Every final answer we seek out,
Is as empty as its question,
Every concise summation
Blurred by the hopes and fears
That coloured it.
All the transient answers
Lost along the days
Are the missing pieces
Of another puzzle altogether.
© BH 2015
Another fragment of something longer. Of course, I might be better avoiding length altogether. Having been once described as both ‘wordy’ and ‘a mumbling bastard’ succinctness (or is it succinctity) could be the answer.
Then again, horses for courses, I might put the extended work in some place other than here. Where only the chosen few can read it. Either that, or where the sun don’t shine.
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