Nocturne

I am everything - though, unevenly so - that I need to be, It is with that realization that I can begin to move forward, That all the pieces are there just waiting to be sorted, Picked up whether soundly or ironically, And placed just in the right little spots, A picture perfect on an imperfect life, But in these milliseconds stolen by light and shutter, Stare back stories and reasons for a goal, Yet reached far from now or then away from when, When the mirrors shatter and the fractals shine, In eyes open tight against rays of burning sun, So weave me a moment to burrow down deep, Among the flowers of burials sake, Atop a chisel and a golden head hammer, The epitaph worn down with the file of harsh winter, But not to be awarded reprieve from my solemn nocturne, Not to be unhallowed in vain or the bane, Of this once now the final night.