He looked in the usual place Suspending each moment high, as a torch he held against dim hope
Beneath the hulk of his childish need. He found the box as empty as those tired years dripping away, the grain of his blood.
There is an ache upon the fields. Beside the furnace he yearns to whisper aloud of a promise unkept
His lies are no longer white Stained red with fevers of impassioned memory blanketing winter’s soul
Longing for harvest, he sets out into the fields Embers of a fading promise keeping him warm.