Young Writers Society

Lost in transition between parking spaces,
that lie neither here nor there,
but somewhere up ahead--
along the crossroads of a moment
yet to come,
that still is veiled in mystery,
but remains as such more welcome
than the present hardship of
what is known.

The past is past,
the present now enduring,
while the future’s promise
remains as always the object of
ambition.

The final goal is always that
of contentment,
yet that seems so unattainable
in light of the fact
that the mind seems just as--
or more so
cluttered than the parking spaces
that lie ahead.

For if one is to persevere,
one must first uncover
the source of tribulation--
where one must staunch the internal flow
that stems from wounds
that never felt the blow.