Of nothing, anything, everything.
Leaning in the bleak, irresolutely remembered past,
And the hard-flung feeling of the present.
Like being the helpless white ball in a
Ceaseless, senseless game of Ping-Pong.
Or is it all really a cold, predetermined future,
In which we eternally shiver?
Each frozen shudder introducing a cruel knot
To the intricate loom of our fragile existence.
Blurring the embroidery of our soul
Until everything just stops.