On Beginnings (Winter's Ending)

Come come, another year has gone
Come come, see what you have brought around
Wrought upon this world, your world
These plains of gold, of myrrh and bold
Seeking fame, fortune, and rectitude
Or not,
As goals often not in alignments fall
Casting us as wanderers upon its beck and call
Journeying like vagabounds through these halls
These open plains, maybe, hedgebound mazes
A maze, amaze the mind in complexity about
To unfold, perhaps leading onwards, towards
Some fantastic ending.
So strike a toast, call for a roast,
To happy endings.
Winter's ending.
So turn up the heat, for flames' burning
Round and round, we go, entreating
Never retreating, though if forward
Was backward, would it not be so?
The end then is not an end, but
Should it be a beginning, a distinction of such...
Brevity.
So fleeting, is the start of things, that perhaps
They are no such thing, but
A break point.
Assigned at random, by an overwhelmed
Journeyman, oh, do you see?
Your path is neverending? What you seek
Never to appear, as long as the question remains
Unclear, undefined, unrefined, and you cast about
Round and round, life unresolved
Winters end, but beginnings are few and far to be found
When their foundations are questionably potentially profound