Exile 

Coming want pertains to its liftless shadows bent 

rendering impossible 

all the old conclusions 

borne on the breeze of sustainless optimistic, conscious daydreams 

like salesmen of old 

would believe 

they were always on the verge of millions. 

A reduceless dank of dark of deepened reticence, diminutive faith in 

likeness to reality 

of promising futures for a commonweal in erstwhile, 

fogged ill-fated 

vanishment. 

Making it easy to depart forever bereft of ritual farewell, the 

dead ardour memory 

ceaseless time's already been seen to quell. A double dire all with 

sight can now like me 

foretell.