Within the dim confines of a lost tomorrow,
The heart finds a home to hide its sorrow,
In bright gold lanes traced warmly with light
In songs that still linger from birds in flight.
Footsteps make patterns in snow from the past,
Cold things, and dead things, and things that don't last;
People and places ringed harshly in rain
Dreams that the mind views with crippling disdain.
Present paths twist through the soul like a thread,
Unread, unspoken; by consciences spread,
Lips meant for moving, smiles and frowns,
Rivelets or rivers, mountains or mounds.