How easy it is to immerse entirely within the dead spaces of desire—
the deep gouges within the heart left to granulate haphazardly.
It leaves us all bearing that unique cicatrix of the soul;
one where words are wind, and actions pantomimes.
The irony arises when palaces are expected from decrepit foundations,
when magnum opuses are demanded from fledgling doggerel.
Given the option, the stark truth is oft bypassed in
favor of the merest sliver of hope—
for the very engine of our virtues and vices toils arduously
to stave off the cancer of despondency.