Into this space descends from errant click,

A soul, now lost, from proper path afore.

The curtain falls, and darkness, stark and quick,

Surrounds us as the dreaded 404.

No path ahead: Retreat, retrace, return —

To pages filled with verse and words adored.

For here lies naught to gather nor to learn.

Ill-fated be your hopes, now 404’ed.

At least, may iambs soft assuage your woe,

Upon this cul-de-sac, this road outwore.

Take now their graces with you, friend or foe,

And leave behind this barren 404.

If this should be our last page, then no more.

Remember well, Mike Tallon’s 404.