Subtle shapes cut the world into our hopes and fears
  impressed on the helpless part of the mind's destiny -
And we have no path past the way of years
  long, long, long, and drawn out painfully.
To walk, or to leave, or to stay, all are failures it seems
in some way or another - but there are dreams
  still, where the path is cut by air suffused from a distant heaven,
  when I can smell the scent of that from whence we're driven,
    hollowed out of mystery, and populated by dragons and fairies -
    to wit: an impossible realm, which buries
      itself in its aphanerosity:
      the strangely clear absurdity. 

Featured image: ‘A Path Through a Wood,’ by Dankvart Dreyer (c. 1850), image in the public domain.

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