Victoria

There's beauty in the barest breath of sunshine,
Wasted on all but those who know despair.
Each wound turns passions just a bit more grey,
Not adding new nor taking old away,
Trading joy for something far less fair,
Yet turning grace to something far more fine.

For such, there is a winding of the way
In which a bleakness, soon become a sign,
Vividly undoes the dying day,
Evoking longings one can hardly bear.