Hope, Approximately

The sun dips low on the horizon, as does my love And being not as the sun, it will never rise again. The waves on the beach crash down, like the guilt of 1,000 fools like me. The storm on the horizon speaks: "To break another's heart is easy, but to break one's own is a skill possessed by only the most worn of men." Glittering in the afterglow of the scarred night sky, the fox's sly smile becomes the moon's only friend. But soon, as with the lightning in the distance, the mournful song of the lonely wind will fade. Like so many flowers in the cold months of winter, we whither with the veiled knowledge, that we will be born again in the spring.