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