Quarter of never is still never
though it feels, somedays, too short
The goal line stretches to meet the hope
and another year dies incomplete

When did the days turn to hours? hours to minutes?
time does not care, nor does he wait
for any elusive allegiance to eventuate resolution

as moral imperative dissolves into pretext
and miles of seasons cast their glow
life grows cold
(mine as it should be, and wasn't )

there is no reason; no rhyme
promise continues to dance with time
each tick and tock a waltz of denial

yet even now, faith rises
it cries and laughs and tangos with circumstance,
vividly rendering even the most apathetic
to mawkishly curry favour

and in the loneliness of that dark light
solicitous measurement bubbles over,
frothing and seething with anticipation