Missing from the plethora of your love
gratitude for others, had each one slept well
to the bitter truth of life, naked falsities
upon them to the deep catacombs in dearth.
Much despair has ruffled the wind
but somewhere still calm in the breast of earth
when it will smolder your veins
with questions what runs in them.
The trial you lived in to hurt
to get hurt, what beyond the sky
or below in the grave of giving up
eternity but arise from the dust.
What sacrifice in pure love,
which eye is blind and no more
than two bit of paper can write destiny
but the four pens would have seen the light.