A shadow of sensation lies therein.
The hungered truth is stumbling on the stairs.
All pleasure which is measured is a sin
and faith misplaced is made of wishful dares.
We end up in the sea like all shipwrecks,
all bounty in our broken holds are drowned,
as memories prolific, fond of sex
and drink and taste, are never to be found
again. The churning of the sea assures
this, one and all. It washes, purifies
and casts the remnants on the tides. The cures
belong to God, and who can criticize?
But one is left to hold, this death negate–
and having found him, nothing is too late.