Stories Still To Be

The story is a worthy thing to seek,

     with every plot twist you get a rush;

Being blinded by every darkened bend,

     teasing truth out in a soothing hush.

The weather of time itself is forecasted

     eagerly by the prophets of each side;

Like each season, tomorrow becomes expected,

     just as the turning of the tide.

To stroll is to remember when,

     the feeling of first steps taken;

When excitement became elation,

     before achievement was forsaken.

Loss is a feast for entropy's arrow,

     a nothing gained which can't be costed;

Every sensation with a beginning,

     becomes one in time exhausted.

Look around with your lids peeled back,

     every blunder creates something free;

And now to think above these lies,

     with no expectation of still to be.