What stories do I have to tell
that I've not told before today?
Until the future turns to past
they're speculations, just my guess.
And though uncertainty is passing,
an illness with a cure of time.
How painful are its constant symptoms,
how torturous the wait can be.
It seems that heart will drive on calmer
if it will know how much is left
and scent of flowers will be sweeter
and happiness will be encaged.
But all of that is stuff of nonsense
and woven with a thread of dream.
Come morning time, it will not stay here
and yet uncertainty remains.