Illusions Of Me Poem by Peter S. Quinn

Closed eyes are longing for something,
That isn't here with us yet, or anymore;
To its inner self and its soul it’ll sing,
Of what it aspires for its own deplore...

But knowing it still, this is of the unknown,
Unborn perhaps, though not uncertain;
A thought for a moment yet not fully shown,
The distances of any dream behind a curtain.

Aims like these are close in their stance,
Like the past is sometimes: a moment still here;
Like it is advancing for its second chance,
It didn't have in the past tense year.

Knowing what they are, I dare not defy:
A thought for the moment I forgot not yet;
But as for all inner grasps - how uncertain am I,
Perhaps it's only an illusion that got backset?