Out of dashed hope

Vacant, pungent,

stained and sweaty,

flailed wish and purpose,

aimless winged days winging

away.

Hoping

something rich with vigor

survives the cleaning up.

Some thing green and growing,

hardier than the decomposing

dream long since bled

out to dry,

and to dust.

Too long and too slow,

shuffling fate retains

a pulse,

sightless, intransigent pulse,

bizarre oasis

on a featureless plain,

the beating heart

invents, again,

what the mind forgets

or never knew.

It would be something

fierce, resurgent,

damp and earthy,
the beautiful face,

another sweet roar coming.