The future holds in its hands, nothing.

In the copious time I’ve held my gaze at it

All I see is this white place,

A docile sheet of paper laying on a desk.

Sometimes there are lines draw across it

As if tempting me to fill them with words I do not have.

Maybe that’s why I keep looking backwards,

And no, not in a simple glance over my shoulder either.

My entire being faces the past and everything it encompasses.

In it I see the riches of moments and the spoils of nostalgia.

It is quite a view.