Hope is a prolix grail 
an abandoned tactility 
born from an echo's brain. 

I would not be wise if I was unkind to it. 
It would be spiteful and tiring. 
Then cadency's hill would be frail to the rim 
to escape the feeling of its departings. 

Thenceforth all the risks that are shamed 
could matter proudly of being absent. 
A lonesome hermit lost astray 
would put some reason to the tea's spilled mess 
to not being reasonable of a hustled stretch 
to not being an evil feather squandered. 

I fight denial's urgency 
below the cradles of harassments 
an empty coma if you please 
shall find the healing of the matrix. 

The goal is not defined to seek 
it is a level which must be polished 
sustain your gracious enemy 
until the sky provides the thunder. 

Twisted hope I reckon the youth I seek 
was in the springtide of the morning
it came more earlier to sleep beneath 
until our arms had fell disarmed.