The slippery slope

Whither goes that mystic

and does it yet live

An article waxing cryptic

with no wisdom left to give

No seas are left to cross

No new frontiers to find

Static now, growing moss

Those shining eyes grown blind

The days pass, growing late

These shadows grow long

The bliss they meant to create

is now all going wrong

For those left who still believe

should not trust to hope

Rather we can only grieve

the slow death on slippery slope