there will not be a better time to write
in the night
than that hour
the closed flower looses all it held of light
and despairs…

or when the moon, shadow worn, hence unseen
beckons keen
passing eyes
that have no ties but time to beam
into the gloom.

the hour that the wolf sings over ****
and the thrill
of that borne
back to the dark of morn, so ever till
Nature ceases.

the pitch of the dark, the doom of the day,
the wasting away
in tombs,
while dreaming of worries
and forgiving death,

when all comforts pass and a chill comes down
like frost found
in the heart
of a flower that knows its gone it’s last round...

there will not be a better time to write



April 4th-5th 2011