Without a word, the good has gone,
And all that’s left is bad:
A famine that goes on and on,
And eats what hope I had;

An endless tract devoid of life
I cross on hands and knees;
And such a mass of inner strife
That kills me by degrees.

And yet, behind this grim veneer,
There burns a fervent light
That cuts through all that’s dark and drear
Like starshine through the night.

And knowing is this beacon’s name,
And I’m its source and very flame.

Photo by Evie S. on Unsplash

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