and bent
and bent
in pain,
despair. . .

And very nearly

The time is given
but, knowing not how good
nor how much,
it feels more lent,
like an expiring
subway token.

The dreamers. . .
Wonders may they craft
in pencil, pen,
or maybe streamers,
or nails and solid wood,
but not “producing”
good or gooda,
like others
who look may
to many
look worthier and more driven,

And though there’s
cold and dark and chill,
somehow these dreamers persevere
as though
there still were hope somewhere,
a dawn
of brightness yet unseen
that, over some horizon wide,
through the one-starred morning dark
one day
shall be broken.

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