Blinded

My future seems non-existent.
Dark and dense,
A big black mass of thick uncertainty.

Fragments of my thinking,
Disperse from my train of thought.
Trying to paint a new picture,
Only to return a empty canvas.

Confusion, the malleable forthcoming imminence.
Destiny?
Fate?
Does one work towards destiny?
Does one wait for fate?

Bereft of clarity on ones non fictitious impending,
Everything happens for a reason,
Truth?
Shadowed denotations?
No,
Leave it to faith.