Without the tempest howls,
Leaves rust: dreams claimed by dust.
The heart is fickle
And from this world of damaged things
It shies away, embracing in its stead
The promise of tomorrows. Endless lies…
For this one dawn may well be too, your last.
Weeks, hours, mere seconds –
The naiads of our age –
Are ruthless in their passing …
Take hold then of my hand, my heartbeat measure.
‘Tis hidden in the pulse within my wrist:
Here lies my time
In memory absconded.
I’ve gambled it away and now too late
Have learnt to prize its value.
Let go. No… Stay with me a while.
This, my diminished life, will presently depart.
How bright this moon…
Could linger here a lifetime
To feel its golden sheen upon my cheek.
How sweet the scent of lilies in the air,
And listen to the ripple of that wave…
Is that the sound of a paddle slicing through?
The ferryman will reach our shore anon.
A coin for the journey,
If you will.