The gift lack the accpetance that it was
meant to have.
It shriveled in the universal coner.
Nobody slavaged it from the freeze of twilight
as dusk shed its gaze upon it like a bleeding heart.
There remained nothing;
no sanctuary,
no tabernacle,
no closet to hide in.
The gifts remaind second, last.
Nothing could compare to that which
stole the spotlight,
for the afterglow was sparce
and no two would carry on the same.
The gift would never be as it was-
sitting in its corner-
and it died like a neglected flower.
Certainly in this hour, your gift has slipped
away far, far into the shadows . . .

Will it be retrieved?

©2000 Michael A. Casares