What is death, but a life’s futility?
Futility of truth beyond the lie.

The relief of spring’s first golden sorrow
beats down on my brow rousing my heart’s warmth
enlightening love by way of what’s lost.

He, whose glistening, shimmering glimmers
of hope seem to stutter on to no end,
Waits for for any such little late effort
in such slender threads to deign a blessing.
A deal only to pass after the part
on ones part comes to pass.

Although buoyancy of hope
Ebbing away,
Seems to foretell of total dissipation,
Icicles lit by the blue moon
Nonchalantly morph into stalagmites
Soaked in the light more golden than the sun’s.

Shadows of hope hang behind slender threads
That the equation can be crafted;
Pulling strings to put in our place
contributions mirroring our own.