the final hour

all that is ethical, all that is appropriate

point me to a path prim and proper

is there room for mistake? for wrong turns and straying foothills?

time has cut us short, smothering the tiny flowers

that grow between the cracks of the worn terrace

and i'm stuck—deadened in my tracks

for you are gone, save for the wisps of reminders

that fill the torpid breeze

...i have been riven, and i am left with nothing

the remains of a broken, wandering pilgrim

whose story has no ending.