..but no one
handed us the hemlock
that which is before us
is our own concocted potion
but we would not admit
it is poison

we are yet
to drink the glass
as the moments pass
we would somehow
not forget
for some undefined reason

first we doubt
then wither
further down
we fall asunder
waiting for another season

to come around
to question
our very existence
in our words unspoken

we would look
through the day's sky
and tremble in adoration
at the beauty
that refuses to die
and our despair-spells
would have broken

in that enlightenment
the veil is lifted
sorrow is forgotten
the waiting glass
would be cast
aside--- nothing
that is life
shall be stolen