always never nothing everything

there is a streak of desperation on the glass
left by the last breath of a dying soul
that never felt the power of a victory
or its deeply replenishing effects

the door is cold to the touch
and outside the sky is black in the absence of the moon
living things shiver from the cold
or whatever it is that keeps us wondering where we go

he is beyond the ubiquitous curiosity of death
shaped like the mountain by time, ragged, too
his vision is settled only on the one thing
that we all possess no matter what we tell ourselves

and by the time the light comes over the treetops
beginning a new day of promise for the living
the streak has been wiped clean by a jacketed arm
leaving no trace of the miserable tear