He sat bent down in front of the light.
Facing dancing patterns under
Moist soil, jutted crumpled grass,
Or in his own lumpen mass, mishapen,
Silhouette always in his sight.

Before he felt the form and finish of the
Not-always, the casted spells in crevice and
Under stone held comfort.

Now, he traces them with swollen
Weary eyes. They seem void and
Vapid.