no point in thinking
about right or wrong,
in the end, is it ever up to us?
I wonder about my hopes.
I may have lost them all,
yet I fail to indulge
in the epicurean practice
of abandonment.
no glory, joy, or
gold—if it mattered—awaits me,
it's something its consequence
will hurl a spear
between my blades
and watch me fall to the absence of sea.
but there is hope for the child
that once held my hand
and said “you're kind.”
thus with this spear,
I may take sail
into the abundance of tears.
without a purpose I remain.
