Gone Past

When the second and third letter 
fail to enlighten 
syllables taunt the pen holder 
"We are many 
you are (n)one."

Decide demur(e) 
didn't say how 
facile spur 
shameful now.

As time taunts space 
and death makes life 
once run race 
shattering fear 

the windy strain
hangs over heads 
a daily pain 
repetition sheds.