Too Late

Too late. It's too late, said the small man, said he, looking up from the way down below. I've been and gone, touched her windows, though open wide they be, Deep beyond their weathered panes All light erased woven so tightly be that black, her fabric of the dark. Hollow echoes loudly through her hallowed walls, No doorway in Nor outway out. though, perhaps, not always... a once a longing time ago, in those brighter lighter days of before and before. But on this day of today, all rings quiet. all too too quiet all too calm. For it is too late too late, said the small man. Her morning sun of now be now her mourning sun.