Completea

In the cocky hours, we begin, began, begot;
Wayward treks up washed-up mountains,
Little lost in laundered moments — too bad,
Too bad, we tumble down.

Suits of black, blue, burgundy, blisters;
Worn on shoulders hunched and bent,
Men of magnitude, of significant figures —
Count not the leftward straying zeros.

Rules and rules and rhymed rhetoric,
Told to tell to torture gentle genetics,
No hope, no hole, no happy hands,
This is the world in which we stand:
Dust.

A bird, a dove, a thousand wings, white,
White, flown too high to catch the sun,
And down we come, we come, we come.

Grieve not the lost for they are those done.