Caveat: Poem #944

So I attempt to move ahead,
to set aside the brooding things,
but moods assert and dwell like dead –
like ghosts adrift on empty wings.
The spider webbing fills my head
with self recriminations, rings
of cloudy doubts and dreams, all led
across landscapes controlled by kings
who rule the shifting realms unsaid
and quite unsayable, till springs
snap shut and render into dread.
Perhaps in moving forward, then
I’ll figure out solutions. When?