Overexposed in a cadence of failure
Is a soft inflection I could be wrong It creeps into this slowing wheel
Penetrates a soft serenity of a comfort
Comes the idea things are still possible
And time; unwelcome guest, now begone
Calm you temper with no brutish logic
Upon the stretched nights cast to frost
And paint me instead a picture of hope
Weak images merging light and shade
The irresolute focus of every dream
Smear oil on life's canvas into spheres
Rolling stones stopping among the moss
And see how much may cling upon us now
Once we are content with inevitability
Life is unfair; but not as unfair as death*
*William Goldman