ten

this which holds fast must be hope
whose slipping grip all fear to lose;
as drowning man to spar with rope
‘ere storms should to take him choose.

what lover last in passions embrace
held as close in desperate fear;
who ken the pall that ever blows a race
on keening wings of beat none hear.

was music ever such heady salve
as soothing coos here to losing soul;
this chords harmony with faltering heave
weighs patience within this fool.

no rest sighted for this tired ache
beset heavy by each unrested moment;
still horizons fill empty to break
that doubting optimist, full in torment.

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