Story: Me, talking to you, passing hope.
You're no good, with ambling, and wander, sans light,
In the air's menace profile, and beneath the muck moon, you chortle throe, and hurt.
On the sly damp grass, you tumble, your face marred, on its side,
Can not arise, weeping, giving up faith, accepting stars, and blurt.
But look! my old despair spoor's nearby, along with the others', all curt,
Countless spoors, each plumes a close story, they beam, passing vert..