On My Eighteenth Year

On this dim dawn, my eighteenth year is born.
The night is ice, the stars are absent here.
A surging flood of thought is born from fear.
From past to fate I think, and I am torn:
Are my rhymes feeble, drawing only scorn
From passers knowing I am never clear?
What of myself? I stand on this frontier
Of melancholy, sadness, hopes forlorn.
No gleaming star gives hope to my estate
As I look to the bleak and endless night.
I cannot draw my dreams from distant eyes,
Nor turn from passioned feelings or their weight.
Ill-fated hopes will always blur my sight.
No answers fall from out the darkling skies.