What is a teardrop to an ocean of sorrow?
As we struggle still, beg and borrow?
Does the rainbow’s end have a pot of gold?
Or have the pretty baubles all been sold?
Empty handed with a glass half full,
Holding myself to warm my soul,
Where the hood cools with a tick beneath my jeans,
And each blink is fraught with lucid dreams,
Getting closer to the place where it all collides,
Where the moon holds sway to my heaving tides,
As red leaves fall like embers from above,
The fires of autumn burn my tenuous love.