Should I go softly into the sweet purring night
or spin like a new windmill into the furious sun?
Shall I yet stretch out upon limbs brittle-sure?
The morn cups chirping birds of Southern hue
as the vultures gather at the the road’s crossing.
I was that gift of drink poured out in love’s leaving,
never noticed till years passed on their understanding.
I watch dimly in this gray world trimmed darkest noir.
The sharp mind bleeds from having turned upon itself.
Colors bled and faded in the passage of indifferent years.
Stark, falling shards have become our only measurements.
O, do you discharge your spirit before slumber overtakes?
There is yet a brightness hidden from earth-bound eyes
that quiets all turbulence in the breathlessness of night.
The quickening comes when time stalls… suddenly.