Looking at Nothing to find Everything

I stare into the void for comfort.

Inattentive past like atramentous blotches in the memory
further concentration adulterates the mind further
what most that can be recalled remains not less than unsatisfactory
cordial hours become commemorated to illusions
present times become monotonous, apprehensive, and teeming with melancholy
dormant rest remains minimum no matter the length
waking persistently calls upon misgivings
the pessimism cloches itself within comfort
distant future is left to cling
every awakening and every sheep to be counted
with all in between remains the minuscule slivers of hope
to find a purpose