There’s a trickle of it in there..
In that exhausted smile
Everyday chiseling at your patience
Working in what wreaks of revile
It’s trickling still..
In your tender will
Every night in languish
Aching for a dream to instill
A fickle vision of aspirations
The emptiness contesting ambition
A fragment of vigor holding a world of trial
A trickle of hope, not an apparition
The leaves are not infinitely falling
The roads are not infinitely swallowed in black
A hand will grasp yours
So long as yours is not infinitely aback