a poem, by Michael Sherillo
How do I know what hopelessness is;
when my goals have flitted out of reach?
Is there a smell upon the air, rotten or fair;
something fragrant or something bitter sweet?
Maybe it's the way, the soft shadows grow,
slowly changing the world into black.
Or maybe it' the sigh of a lonly tree in the breeze,
swaying, forever, forward and back.