There is something amiss in the solitude of this life
How it reaches, ever yearning but never quite grasping that thing which it craves.
Creating an entire world of somethings out of the swirling nothings of the darkness surrounding it.
With each passing year it seems the light of promise dims.
Will it, too, fade into the darkness?
It aches to feel the warmth of a home
But is continually placed
in the chilly woods between Almosts and Maybes.