The sun slowly drips its honey across my face
Sweating out last nights essence with tea
I hold the governance of all things unsaid
I will not bear the shame of almost was
I will not hear the un-named called on the hour
When dogs will scurry into their unmarked graves
Calling like the coyote into the night
With an uncontrollable longing for what is lost
What is gone, and what has been forgotten
The spots of glare fascinate this glossy mind
As it winds its way through the spiral of decay
Memorizing the lines of an old Hemingway poem
Like the underside of a frequently-thumbed sack
And no, there will be no last dance as the wind hits my back
There will be no sweet romance with the birds and the bees
While the clock slowly ticks it’s monotonous rhythm
However long shall thou steal away into the night?
Long forgotten whispers remain seated on the knit of my brow
