In these chaste chasms of dreams,
embers lay solemnly,
their dying breaths long since gone,
ushered away and of little consequence now.
The undisguised dust, like gentle butterflies,
finds a place in the air.
The soft eyes of fate watches the dimming cloud
filter out of view, then as wind
she blows it back in our face.
Despite lost fulfilment,
and rather than choke, we breathe deeply again
like new-born infants crying out for a chance,
luck and good fortune to
clothe us on the coldest of days,
and perhaps for well earned rewards to litter our path,
the rains to pour down and the heavens to smile
on us when we stoop to pick up the promised orchids.