As our longing smolders, wrecked <br />by basics we can't correct, <br />faith's fruit rots whole from neglect. <br /> <br />Nil can cure this forlorn state <br />as I suffer death's debate, <br />each tortured whim shall stagnate. <br /> <br />Frosted inside, clutching hope <br />while sliding down psyche's slope <br />to rattle each isotope. <br /> <br />These energies I've rendered <br />realize care surrendered <br />far from promises tendered. <br /> <br />Yet, I won't fall degraded <br />by expectation jaded <br />inside vacuums, unaided, <br /> <br />ignoring noble meaning, <br />basking in visions, gleaning <br />sympathy intervening <br /> <br />once our spirit flies, leaving <br />behind gravity's heaving <br />fortunes once worth believing. <br /> <br />Swelling forces must mature <br />if reservoirs shall endure <br />to offer essence to cure.<br /><br />John Weber<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/trickles-ebb/
