Then he looked steadily into the dark,
He saw himself again was all but dark,
Along the river was a floating moon,
Suddenly the clouds roamed free,
Slowly a silence deigned by traffic,
Slowly a breeze no warmth to cease,
Raw and brought was cold long sought,
He freed himself into the wild yet,
Towards the end he slowly breathed,
His heart was faint as too his breath,
Lungs shrinking to sound of heart,
Heart beating with the sort he knew,
A grass so dry and yet so warm hugged,
Was all the still water could only wet,
Breathes silent and sees himself there,
A figure stood that silently stood in wait,
In wait was he who thought long and hard,
Nor plan nor future was his past contend,
Can only see the way forward but does not take;
There’s nothing; nothing is the new black,
Then when there’s the sort that kindles the sort,
It is the past memories that bring most pain,
How could he have done so, what to have done;
Could have been better, but all was lost,
Then he walks away with eyes closed,
Then walks away with hands clasped,
His head mounting Everest in cold envy,
His stomach hanging by so-worn ropes,
The ageing eyes his sight ere muster see,
The beating fallacy of his mind’s resolve,
A chastised soul nor was not his sake,
Whence felt his utter memory is not so bold,
At last the mirror in nature thus besought,
Casts a shadow the figure is man begot,
Whose only wars are so wildly end in fought,
Can only seep tears how bitter last in thought,
This mortal war that drums an aching heart,
A drum’s skin how torn is he in half,
Begs himself this rage be utter be free,
At last to flee is but heaven is sought,
None forgot but he the voice and tears be found,
Lingers here and there this angel dare to talk,
Cloaked in black how shined is tallow gone is state,
Brewed in wax a naked flame but not in shame,
Thwarts an escaping heart but morn is felt,
Effects a hundred steps long his mind is closed,
Sees the figure in that his dreams are seen,
Through rooms how dark is horror yet in wait,
By light is but not a scream known in pain,
As though trunks could crush a man to feet,
More the meagre sight of woe is struck by hate,
Ere roots shall resign him by post to fate,
His ground be fluid but swallow all but him,
Onward march a heart is fellow without fellow,
Astound a gem no cheap nor bugged to scorn,
Presents himself through dawn’s first light,
Esteems the craft his mighty scorn in few,
Though none abridged but tired and bent in vain,
Skewers the edifices his thoughts to fix,
Speaks the first words since arm’s defeat,
Slew the beacon of that his spirit commands,
Amidst the clearest sky no clouds to fall,
Amidst moon and sun in earthly fight to fall,
Is but man himself in great a dainty hour.

Life, Poetry, Works
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