A spiraling of evening light,
A quick declension into dark;
The murky and the recondite,
A glint from off the curving arc —
A staring, past the point of sight;
About to finally disembark —
A spiraling of evening light,
A quick declension into dark.
And though the leaf be fastened tight,
The dying day will leave its mark:
On those who guard a lost monarch —
A spiraling of evening light,
A quick declension into dark.
The salt air in your nostrils, as
The waves lap out their lullaby;
The soul that is, is one that has
A right to give up on the “why”
For maybe, it’s not ours to know.
It will, it must, it needs be so —
The way we feel, but cannot guess,
A pattern that is patternless
How many angry words are too soon said?
He reworks all of these, his long mistakes —
They rattle and they stab inside his head;
They gather into pools, and sometimes lakes.
Escaping does not quite seem possible;
The pools too deep, the lakes uncrossable —
And so they form a sort of slow revue:
The when and how, the why and where, the who —
So is this what a man becomes at last?
A parody? An anchor in the sand?
Or finally, just might he understand
That there’s no peace till there’s peace with the past —
To sit and hold, to breathe, and to believe,
And fade away like shadows of an eve
