So where at last, do we come to?

As our words; so overused, now fail,

We the lesser scions of greater poets

Wielding aged eyes, blurring pen strokes

Working hard, yet in vain, to express hope

Only to complete a childish journey of words

A critique of futility in a world of beauty

As the last bee collects her cooled nectar

She thinks of sleep now; summer is long gone

And as the autumn of another year begins

We shall dream of spring and growth; as

Our words freeze intractably into winter