Continuous

There are no years without decease
No honesty in slow luminosity without dim
What is it that we begin with when are to search,
For when seeking, what ultimately will finish;
Every-thing in the dark, foresees the shadow of light
To feel the echo of the day before which become traces
Which collapse into something knowable,
Something do-able, where we can't exhaust words.
Can your end be without a cautious beginning?
And what is so secure about free knowing?
The end or the continuous it is hard to know which.