Shimmering Light

There is no peace
in this soulless wasteland.

Day turns to night,
night turns to years:
only marred remembrance
of past happy times—
scarcely remembered,
and it hurts too much to think.

Nagging knots
stir, twist, and gnaw
around in my belly
with an unrelenting drum.

A friendly companion calls:
his face grieved and grey,
whipped by the same
master:
Of our mechanical fate.

In a moment of despair
I'm reminded from
Berry and Guite
that even in the darkest of night
there is a shimmering light.

Light:
that is so kind.