In times of sure uncertainty, I pray,

but not to Love or superstitious Chance;

I ask but for a smile through the day,

for pleasure garnered by a wave or glance.

In time of dark dismissals and details

and imaged blunt refusals for me pains,

I can't but pause and think of 'if this fails'

-- and, folly-filled, I hope that pain remains.

What burns behind this feeling that I wish

these tiny somethings left, and nothing more?

Departure from this catacomb'd abyss

would journey me where I had been before:

the sea of blankness, normalcy, decy,

and whirlpooled darknesses sense ne'er betrays.

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