shot with shadow shards of sure things shifted shyly, shelved and shorn
panic prickles piercing (partly) parapets of private pain
what we wish when words won't wind or weave a way with wisdom worn
to try to treat this tardy time as trinkets tossed on tin terrain
deeply dumb, divorced, departed, doubly devoid of dreams
caught in clay cacophonies of cold and clammy custard creams
empty evanescent each and every error etched in earth
behold by brightly bannered bases berries burning with rebirth
Sing The Sun by Wayne Myers