RESIGNATIONAL
Perhaps the gray clouds of deceptive being
flow slowly on the stream of every day.
Why must all change from was to is no way?
For dreaming
has melted by the power of each tear,
has vanished with the hope that joy is near,
that it would stay—
but time slipped away.
How bitter rains the sludge of helpless weather,
I long to drift back, every moment free,
into the hours of strength and clarity,
when there lived
those longings to discover the unknown,
those efforts to behold what none had shown.
That prayed-for flame...
...hardly became.
How long upon the border of event
a soul can hang in void of bare existence?
Who feels the breakage of life's fragile instance?
We are spent,
and many never sense their hidden scars.
And all the counsel offered, near and far,
by many hands,
is empty, second-hand.
Author: Veron
