A Crossed Stick

Fiddling words mark the ending,
Of every book and none with no ring,
Reliving the truth no one shall bring,
Everlasting wondrous and amusing,
Vowing every reader to die in dreaming,
Even the moon reveals in the morning,
Ruthless, no one seems to see it coming.

I miss the scent of yesterdays,
Nothing was too bright for the sun to blaze,
Strongest fear was a scene to play,
Ignorant crowd but nothing gets in the way,
Did I notice those were the days?
Enthralling veins and answered prayers?

Through words I speak for this grief,
Hovering but constantly gasping to live,
In these humble lines leaving what and if,
So in this poem I cry for wanting to believe.

Hear, this is never a wail,
Endearing thee heart I now unveil,
Alas now time wants all its trail,
Roughest grasp stitching this tale,
Though I still pray for two to sail.