Why must things fall apart,
And weariness fall long into a dart?
The pierces and the leaving ache,
The emptiness of hands rising too late,
There is no blood to spill.
No mark of casualty to fill-
These empty hands- yet so I raise,
Them here to You, the one I praise,
The one I rail upon and find so true,
Draw near to me, draw near would You?

Shorn short I must purport,
Though truth-saith I am but,
Haired not woolen. And of the sort,
Encroaching to my nose's jut,
Well almost so but still unfurnished for the task.

Sharing a glass of laughter,
Albeit not half full but plenty,
Funny voices turn to snoring,
Recounted tales to quiet breaths.