The verdict is in, old friend:
there will be no recovery.
I am laid bare
on this bright path.
The white petals of wind
whispered it to me,
wrapped up in this wishing
well of ink which never ends,
though I've written,
by command,
ten thousand lines.
What a life it is,
this life.
This single, endless life
which let me go that icy night
by an old river, returned
to uncover this soul-knowing
flow back to source.