There is a changing sense,
Traceable to the beginning and winding
Through this maze of years we
Tacitly call history;
Though often is nothing but the memory of a dream -
Intricate, long-distant
Inventions, designed merely out of repetition -
Idleness as a means of diluting our
Irrepressible human compunction for
Injuring our most fragile sensibilities.
Mechanisms of truth abandoned to rust;
Mayhem reigning in the palace of our
Most exalted emotion: love.
Mended previously, only to be
Mistreated once more.
Eventually appears a soul, a reality which
Evinces hope.
Empathetic, expectant, all the while
Ensuring to stay even beyond the day when
Each wound has been carefully healed.