The end (of the beginning)

I long for clarity
and find only rust dust
(and a vague sense of 'must').
I long for truth
and find just
ambiguity.
I long for pride
and sense the evil tastes
of vengeance
and despair.
I long for some shapes of infinity
and, forever, am stuck at some fraction of
one.
I ache for love
and see only pale prisms
and swirling mirages in the dunes.
I long for union
and find mere contiguity.
I long to rest,
and lie in endless parallel.
I search to share
and feel myself ungiven, ungiving,
ungiven to.
I do not wait
at No one's gate.
I do not ease
or seek reprieve.
I do not expect forgiveness,
nor bury my berries
for future use.
I do not see refinement
as sophistication,
or crudity as father
of untruth.
I do not ask for liking,
nor anticipate it.
The path is only hard
when it leads out from
nowhere, and to that
somewhere that, of course,
does not exist,
though, once, it might have or may have
done.