Where will my hand end? At the fingers? On the page? Will the words continue In lieu of context? Will they spill? Purely rhetorical. It's your mind on a string Dangling out A gnat from flame. Here are forever guesses As yesterday's tomorrow Is a brilliant today And will we be heroes? Or demons? Or ghosts? The end is a far off sight With orange groves And a splendid path That winds its way back.