Despite the joys and birth of days
It’s in the shadows lives are formed.
And emptiness has taken grip
With hollow hold and weighted wings.
In dreamless sleeps and deathlike states
These creatures, raised in setting suns,
Have soaked my life’s imperfect truths
With bile as bleak as printer’s ink.
Their tools of resurrection rust
Beneath the darkening Autumn skies.
I’ll wear their wreath of drowning hopes,
No matter how the lights might spark.
As comets trail their dust of tears,
My hopeless questions cling to fears.