COBWEBS
The splendor of the dream fails to ripen
In the sterile soil of lonely days.
The round of the world turns the landscape
Of life before a defeated eye
As decrees issued before emergence fulfill
Their appointed duties,
Groping through automated days
Each moment suspended by a thread
Of Anxiety,
Never settled, always starting over
And ever seeking shelter.
When the grim business of life concludes
Another day,
We still dream of a bountiful tomorrow.