Trickles Ebb

As our longing smolders, wrecked by basics we can't correct, faith's fruit rots whole from neglect. Nil can cure this forlorn state as I suffer death's debate, each tortured whim shall stagnate. Frosted inside, clutching hope while sliding down psyche's slope to rattle each isotope. These energies I've rendered realize care surrendered far from promises tendered. Yet, I won't fall degraded by expectation jaded inside vacuums, unaided, ignoring noble meaning, basking in visions, gleaning sympathy intervening once our spirit flies, leaving behind gravity's heaving fortunes once worth believing. Swelling forces must mature if reservoirs shall endure to offer essence to cure.