Poetry

The drops that are dismally lost,
And the drops that never change
Remains glittering in this endless abyss.

Inside of this aimless pit of black nothing,
An unfamiliar shade of effulgence
Illuminates the midst of its own entity.

The torch that you have been given
Resides in your former glacial hand.

The cease of the accumulation of mourning, cascading glass
Has abruptly put a pacifying, meaningful end
To the grief of the transparent beads' being.

There are others that remain, however.

Some shall always find a leading way
Through this merciless yet benign world.

Those lamenting, descending globules of your's 
Remains falling in the vaults of your reflections, 

Yet they have now emphatically
Found a reason to be at some rest.