The fighter making passes at the fading sun sees.
how the shadows seek dark places
and
how they run,the combing of the distant dream leans
heavily on shoulders bent,
falls shabbily on rented circumstances,
no second chances here at the milepost of the year
and what a year it's been,
more shadows seen.

Tripping once or twice as he slips into the
promised paradise, that is
no gift to him,
there is no *** of gold just a tin of beer,not cold but
welcoming.
A churning in his guts,a yearning somewhere for something,
a wedding ring that rings no bell,
see how once mighty men have fell,
still fall,
fall still and silent and the will once strong.
long time ago
makes eyes at suns.
It comes to some when the fighting's done
and the gloves are put away,I
expect
It'll come to me one day.