You shimmer still within my dusk, a faded gleam in memory’s husk.
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"It's easy to find those who'll sprint to the end with a heroic gleam, but to run the long race with a steady, patient pace is rarer and more noble."
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Whatever beyond the horizons, will light-up,
My soul will soar with all souls; glowingly gleam-up...!
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Walk with me now, among the transfixed dead
who kept life’s compact and who thus endure
harsh sentence here—among pink-petaled beds
and manicured green lawns. The sky’s azure,
pale blue once like their eyes, will gleam blood-red
at last when sunset staggers to the door
of each white mausoleum, to inquire—
What use, O things of erstwhile loveliness?
('Completing the Pattern' by Michael R. Burch)
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