hasty predictions

Worship of

Worst hits

I come back

For combat

Nervously pacing

Fervorously wasting

Cursive is straightening

But print is erasing

Microscopic views and

Catastrophic news and

Philosophic clues and a

Periodic fuse

Lingering sparks of doubt

Flush out like remarks that spout

And rush out the barks that shout

At me, trying to hinder the sprout

Of light, lying to whisper and pout

Screaming and crying

Steaming from trying

No need for dining

Loud plead of pining

Shining bright

Quiet night

Aligning lights

Inclining sights

Vast and broad

Yet grasped the flawed

And was left in awe

When I saw

The ice had thawed

And I’m glad that I was wrong

All along.