I mourn the dead too often in the sun
And stare the rays as tho' it were a death
Not mine, nor yours, but till my all feels none
And what I give in thought, is lost in breath.
That air does brush the pain, yet not improve
As in that breeze so travels ends to means
With whispers hounding of a timeless move
That ever in a time - now timeless scenes.
I dwell in dreams that were, tho' never won
And offer plainly a discourse to tell
That I, gave them no chance, not even one
To grow inside a mind that grows as well.

To that of mine, no claim bequeaths my will
Let I as dust just sit, on widow's sill.