and in perhaps an hour, it was over.
One slash of time made ridicule
of caution, for the silence that he chose
was not enough; he hated it,
chose death instead,
and that without regret.
I wonder just how long it was
the engine poured its fumes
into his ambience,
and he beyond a care...
how many passed just yards away,
how many chronicles raced with them,
past the brute unconsciousness
of the undead, as they sped by.
It was a double silence that prevailed
upon the darkening day--
a double irony as that frail candle
smoldered when its destiny