The years pile up with anonymous wreckage,
and scattered images become latent feelings
bereft of details.
But you learn
to glance backwards,
without nostalgia or remorse,
just tranquility.
Turmoil is done,
loose ends returned to oblivion,
uncertainties banished.
So, onwards!,
to unfolding and future disasters,
every peril you sense through drowsy eyes
and nascent depression.
Another cup,
and tar to coat your lungs --
the world is not your oyster,
and they have got your number.
Where does it go?
How does it end?
And why ask questions
only the world,
and the world alone can answer?
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