It crumbles in my hands as I reach out
And grasp it. Even as I try to hold
Myself and it together, I must doubt
The possibility of doing so. I'm cold
And not just from the temperature outside.
I fumble wildly, in hope unjustified
By any real foundation that I could
Be able to reconstitute it, save
What should have been, as I imagined, good
Out of the mess I've made. Weary, I crave
Some little indication I might be
Successful; but my doubt is stronger than
The hope inside me. With finality
I must set by the project I began.
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