See how he looks back in hope and forward in shame,
Hopeless feeling, naught will ever be the same;
And now, front again, he has no word.
While the train rocked and rolled along the tracks
Hope remained in him to somehow veil the cracks,
But stillness brings silence, and, in silence, loss.
The dwindling flame under great Boreas’s sigh,
Sinking anchor in the waters of divinations nigh,
Is prime example of Promethean pride.
A word shall be broken, promise will not be kept,
A cool, life-tainted blade will forever be wept
As all possibles but one fade.
Too little is sometimes too much and, too much, too little.