By Benjamin Shapiro
My spirit withers 

As I look back, 

Writhes in anguish,

Turning black

I must find

A better way,

A change inside

As the future splays

Itself before me. 

No sun ahead

As I make pleas

To darkness and dread. 

Pinhole of light 

In black abyss 

Drive forward

Try not to miss

The infinite

Smallness of happiness

Off target 

Due to stress

And still I push

For the light

Break dark hold

Blinding sight

Future now

Or is it present

Or visions

That are pre-sent

Of time not occurred 

At least not yet 

A future of

No regret.

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