Pitfalls,
Long shadows,
Dusty thoughts
That leak in darkened rooms.
Overcome by this twilight,
And a quiet departure
In an early evening,
Where I now face my self again, alone.
If the soul has a purpose,
Apart from my own,
Then how do I listen?
All of life is either a long dream
Or some too detailed present view,
And I miss the rest of what becomes.
Short-sighted, waning like the moon.
Just a sliver of the self,
The rest hidden in dark recesses
Of quiet cold,
No sound, no big exchange.