On will and ill

O If I could count how many times my hopes have crumbled - 

but too often it seems the host knows of ruin,

and on ruins a heart can linger.

(though deserted by feeling)

In silence the catacomb remains -

though the casket may be fine,

gone is every bone.

If I can't keep track of the troubles

that get past through me,

The troubles keep the track for me.