autonomous,
the simple song of
past
prosperous,
might be more vivid than
truth had been,
lucid stems of
wanting
and
the ache of
never be-

oh, a wish is,
was,
washed out and on the
shore,
some certain path before
yet back
some step was
scored
deficient,
the sway
away what would be being
to, what now,
the show is seeing

addicted, now,
not then
to the futile other
thens,
to the putrid
past tense,
to the woe
of self infect,
the hope
since came and 
went,
and all the nots that
reign, present

yet
lingering resolve,
though famished,
might still recall
the gusto,
ambitious as sufficient
is the everlasting
gall