Like the molten embers
of a dying fire,
the last crumbs of a meal,
we give ourselves
in appreciation of  a lie;
the cold and hungry.

For the makers don't always
choose wisely,
and the survivors lose patience
to keep seeing beyond horizons
and find only the salty grace
of the waves,
building sand castles gets tiring
when all that is  written
gets swept away.

The comfort is dwindling
that of a candle in the storm,
wavering,  unsteady,
unlike the ashes which consume,
then linger,
a potent reminder
that even hope dies,
even restraint ends.

Sometimes it is the delusion
of a happy ending
that keeps us alive.