At the Last
Light makes its retreat
upon a thousand western hills
and it is time for endings.
overlapping, self and self,
leaping on the past, like hurdlers
in a race of the insane,
the denouement broadcasting fear
like seeds that flourish, feed,
then gnaw upon the viscera.
Then is dread self-orchestrated,
colors fade, and hope is turned away.
Even sadness now is quite stillborn,
time suspended and
the open door to God
forever closed.
How to prepare?
Impossible.
For at the end of endings
might there be somewhere
behind that far-off plain,
unknown, unsought,
somehow,
something that begins?
~
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
