THIS.IS.IT.

There are no more words,
There are no more actions,
There are no more thoughts--
This is it.

Between me and the purposed present stands--
Nothing.

One 'blessing' imagined, dwelled on--
Never received--
Always stood in the future--
Always just beyond arm's length--
Never an arm long enough to snatch it.

One 'blessing' on the horizon,
Pleaded for-- refused.

Instead of the accursed, the tragic, the distant,
Which brings unceasing ache,
Never-satisfied discontentment that gnaws constantly--
There is the now.

Here is the now--
The verifiable blessing,
The inescapable goodness--

The horizon, though appealingly dark,
Is far off, many kilometers, in fact.

But between me and the purpose present stands--
Nothing.