
This Apathetic Pall,
A single gleam, this mired dream,
Might not survive withal,
Conversely if such, sunlight be crushed,
As finger pressed to keyhole,
The darkness might do, and again imbue,
The dreams that hope doth stifle,
Be light be dark, produce the spark,
Or pull out the fuse ‘together,
There is no fix, in saving wicks,
For disagreeable weather,
I’ve tried to stave, this shallow grave,
With hope for one more song,
But shoveled dirt, will only skirt,
The casket for so long.
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