He was always looking
to the horizon, as if tomorrow
would provide some small hint
of what was to come, knowing
the shadows of yesterday would
always be trailing behind him, his
albatross of unfulfilled dreams.
He knew it was a futile search
that he was wasting his present
for a future that would arrive on its terms,
but compulsions were things he
had been powerless to reject,
and he knew the present had nothing
to offer him, save depression.
He was stuck in a maze that
had neither entry or exit
and there was only the foreboding sky
until the dreams of night
provided him with a freedom
that the day always denied him.