James Gale

The days ahead gather on the horizon,
Heavy with something unnamed.
It is that weight which unsettles me,
Not the end, nor how finite life may be.

It is this dwelling in uncertainty,
This forgotten knowledge
Of simply existing,
Lost in cosmic translation.

Yet there are sparks,
Igniting, ever so briefly,
All but unseen
Within this endless dark.

What hiding place have I left,
If the shadows no longer claim me?
Will my soul vanish entirely,
If haunted, at last, by the light?

Yet even despair carries still
A delusional sliver of hope;
I am but a story being written,
And how melancholic
An ending here would be.