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About This Poem
It is the time of demon and dragon play
It is the time of demon and dragon play
When the screech owls of the soul take flight,
Seeking the confused and easy prey
Of a restless mind lost in a restless night.
And time goes by like empty boxcars
On a speeding freight through a sleeping town.
The empty echoes from afar
Rise to a desperate wail and then the dying sound.
Questions rise, seeking to be heard,
Only that and nothing more.
And then, as with all things too long deferred,
Are consigned to the coffin of an empty metaphor.
But weariness defeats all things, even despair must melt
Before the ancient rhythm of past and yet unfolding time.
And in the distant rising light, even defeat and loss so deeply felt
Dissolves and then resolves into memory, vague and gracefully sublime.
And yes, time goes by like empty boxcars
On a speeding freight through a sleeping town.
The empty echoes from afar
Rise to a desperate wail and then the dying sound.
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