The Ends of the Earth

I used to sense the future

 

as a vast, temporal space

 

like the open road on a highway - 

 

an immense uncharted land

 

of chronological kilometres

 

into which I plunged

 

one second at a time -

 

an empyrean of unlimited potential 

 

*

 

I used to maintain that I had the power 

 

to make anything happen 

 

that I could manifest my goals and aspirations

 

through sheer will -

 

if I only aimed my mind 

 

and focused

 

nothing was impossible…

 

*

 

I used to feel a magic in the air

 

when I gazed into the face of my love

 

in tall, gilded rooms 

 

a bridge to forever adjoined our eyes

 

pyroelectric forces pulled at our bodies 

 

and the ferrous syrups of our star-blood

 

*

 

I used to believe that the universe listened

 

to our heart’s desires

 

that it perceived our dreams

 

and granted them providence -

 

as if some sublime intelligence 

 

beyond anything that we could fathom 

 

secretly embraced us

 

whispering inspiration

 

every hour of our lives

 

*

 

and so for a while

 

I used to live within the lucency of these notions

 

I felt their warmth and reassurance

 

I tasted the nectar of their optimism 

 

I trusted the buoyancy of their hope

 

*

 

but 

 

with age

 

with the passage of time

 

roads lead to no where

 

outcomes cannot be controlled

 

the air is suddenly devoid of magic

 

and the universe closes doors 

 

feather by feather conviction is deplumed 

 

*

 

how quiet 

 

how strange 

 

what happened to the believer?

 

the fighter?

 

the lover?

 

the champion of destiny?

 

where are they now?

 

and who is this cracked person

 

left standing in their place?

 

are we wiser now?

 

are we less naïve?

 

are we emotionally scarred?

 

or are we merely a derivative 

 

in the enigmatic calculus 

 

of consequence?