As the days they slowly turn to weeks,
and your someday softly sullen speak,
the strongest soon become the weak,
as you unearth your broken wheels to leave,
the wagon buckles from the load,
and the cargo falls victim to the undertow,
the river after the melt of snow,
the water runs too deep,
so fast,
too cold,
so pure,
and unforgiving.

With time I become more resolute,
The tide,
The moon,
to all will come an unfound fate,
to all will come what they create.

If fools could speak of geometry,
you would be the right angle,
while me, obtuse,
I find light in the darkest places,
where the glint of the moon turns back time,
I look back,
And find you cloaked in fog,
traipsing towards me,
with no rhyme,
strafing while they bleed,
we are cogs in the handset,
we are all lost teeth,
broken and shattered,
fallen to those underneath.