I sat there in thoughtful repose, a fixed stare into
The crystal ball, wishing for a response or a voice,
Truly I've never received anything more than
Silence, as though there even was a magical point.

A ghostly will I have in mind, is that in the end
I can be buried right next to a willow, so that maybe
If the mid-morning rain falls upon my grave,
It will offer only a melody song of wind chimes,
Just a note of tranquil soft rain, a bell ringing
Off in the distance, tolling like the golden days.

Perhaps there will be an answer somehow, perhaps
There will never come an answer, but what's the point?
This train I am on goes where the commoners please,
Is this life just an endless toil, a festering disease?

*Somehow I'll find it, the fantasy dreamt fairytale answer.
No magic. Period. A lifetime of stress, work, and now cancer.