some reverie,
some recluse once was,
what
will be
and all that nonsense
between.
that cyclic sensation,
inflated,
recreated in 
time,
seasonal servitude
the
bleakest, broken, sweetest
beatitude-
the solitude,
in seeking dichotomy,
the fate,
fitted fine and
finite,
in all those pages
yet made,
that might be
already
written.