Despair

Time's ordered progress takes each veil away.
Each mystery is shown eventually:
as leaves are blown away at last you'll see
the house beyond, inhabitants gone grey,
all plain and homely, tempers kept at bay,
well-bred and unobtrusive, cautiously
proceeding , somewhat parenthetically -
expected vision. Why then this dismay
at one enigma gone? Why such a stone
upon my breast, such silence in my mind?
Not to acknowledge nothing's left behind
when lost illusions leave me all alone
in desperate un-hope I'll ever find
some new desire to soften the old grind?