Deers panting painfully,
the breath of death roams optically,
fibres of fear torn through the year.

Peering through a glass dimly,
ripping what was sewn grimly,
hollow laughter stitched by a phony braceline.

The tears were always true,
dormant they had been till they poured down bountiful.

An ocean of gloom.  
All the while a joy at the base vibrates with every rising tide and wave.

Even with a desire to cease and find reprieve,
The birth pangs insist that the vision they must conceive,
behind the cumulative nimbus lies a quantum of solace that will make the ghastly trip seam a breeze.