peculiar madness to
leave a life to rest
"i've tried my best,
i've tried my best--"

and in continence
there is no subtle swoon
no comfort to a hope
that wains in somna

and we stand before ourselves
humble ghosts, a symbol without refrain
waiting for some higher Life to grasp us
to continue our lowly pursuit

and we hear tender murmurs
impossible to understand
and we are quaint to think
that we are not merely amidst cosmic conversation

but at the center,
inclined to carry some divine flag
for Being's who cannot be bothered
to it themselves