No end in sight

I’ve not been to a desert except
for some parking lots
and family reunions.
I know emptiness.
Over the years, I have been filled
with books and music and drawings
from passersby heading
somewhere else.
I know transient satisfaction.
I railed secretly
(and then not so secretly)
at never being anyone’s destination.
But that’s not my gift.
I am no goddess of remorse or recompense
but a humanist committed to renewal.
I know metamorphosis.
I’ve not found any endings
except in sentences
and they don’t count for much.
I know so little.

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