The surly, whorly curlicues of angst
Do in the margins hurry our despair.
For if you had been thanked as well thou thankst
We might not be in need of such repair.

The world goes on as though sore little passed
And travelers all we journey on through time.
We try to hide the suff'ring that will last
The eons casting diss'nance so sublime.

So little grasped, so much let go that we
Believe our lonely lives are meaningless.
Yet in the hearts of those we care to see
The spirits wait us longing to caress.

And thus, we pray, our mission might just be
A trifle more than possibility....

13 April 2009
Austerlitz NY