When….


When we hurtle through life so—

Unsoft.

Unsound.

Joy Beckoning.

Despoiled – sometimes.

And away a feather.

Tender bright.

On the sunset that never was.


—  I resound without meaning.

Lost in shade.

Through all the flickering lights

The blaze glories.

The red and yellow streaks of fire

—  My last present.

Me, do I bequeath to you?

The night-time beckons.

When are we truly alive you and I?

Where?

But still it calls.

Still.

*

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