The Nugatory Tales

The end of many things.
Of a cold, terrible winter
and the bitter, budding sprouts
from the trees, into leaves
leaving a fine, lurid dust
that poison which floods
away in May, clean in June

When green and blue roar,
like a lioness pride,
ready for the hunt.
We are ready.

The doors open and we stumble
into our freedom and slavery
unsure of what or whom,
to do or see.
Naive natives out for ourselves
and the lust for adventure
that never seems quenched.

An infinite, white map,
of finite satisfaction,
blotched with black.
Where do we go?