It does not matter if what I say
is true. Each morning in the dark,
fears sit scattered nonchalantly
about the house eager to converse
with any who will stop and listen
to their gleeful whisperings
about death, love, flowers, and bears.
In this city of shadows, the moon’s
always about to set; she sits fatly
on the horizon like a cat watching
from a window. Within these darker
shades, beneath the murmuring
trees, I float, like fireflies, oblivious
to the figures lurking tense along
my edges. I shed memory, like artifacts,
to be retold as a new man to a more
jaded audience somewhere beyond
the fresh ash occluding the prescient
hand grasping after air like beggars.
No warning sounds soon enough
to pierce my ontic musing
with clarity to comprehend
the swiftness of an unforgiving end.
(May 10 ,2014)
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