Epigone
( * \EP-uh-gohn\, noun:
An inferior imitator, especially of some distinguished writer, artist, musician, or philosopher )
Put these tears to bed,
each grand, eloquent, emptiness;
god has fallen from the tumbling sky,
and the moon is but a wind tonight.
The dead, seeing no difference,
have nothing to say; no compass to guide,
and night, without children,
pools in the disinterest of shadow.
Put these clocks to censure;
hope is but the friendly shout of youth;
how she passed my notice without notice
and fades; a gentle lighthouse sweep;
my heart, the fractious shore.
---------------------04/12/01
Copyright © Robert Warlov | Year Posted 2019
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