Splintering syllables slide into the night.
Persistent effort is so often a blight
on the souls of the many who
seek comfort and delight; who
trade away their light for a future
whose possibility is so slight.

At the end of their seeking
after they’ve burned and destroyed
the land, the people, any
competition in sight, they
are left empty as the possessions
they sought — those same things that
all those years ago had promised
them the fullness for which all
these years they have silently wept.