Maybe is hope


Maybe is hope,
if never remembers,
climbing on ropes,
from where we don't know.

Cold as the sun,
In deepest Decembers
religiously soaked,
paving new roads.

All is with none,
just legal tender,
a egg that's been poached,
and left to it's own.

Gold of the charge,
a cavalry's splendor,
swimming in moats,
and found long ago.

A time for the end,
for all that we render,
as worrisome goes,
we wait all alone.

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