A Small Token

You sit opposite my long gaze – smoking.
Long wisps curl along your lips,
Before escaping along the growing shadows.

Winter has brought us here.
Death steals and yet seems to
Return some small token, as though remorseful

Of such a solitary purpose.
For no one wishes Death’s company.
No audience holds to his thoughts, nor purpose.

Even Life must cloak her great light
When death presents the scythe, allowing
Fate to instruct as Fate decides.

In this moment, Life must sit as I do now,
Staring with quiet resolve as the soft glow
Of ash rises and falls with each silent drag;

Slow and rhythmic, as soundless as our feelings,
As stoic as our hardened refusal to weep,
As helpless as the last sentence spoken

Before we parted in summer, knowing then
Winter was upon us and fall only a bridge
For transiting the great chasm self often carves.

As last light recedes, giving darkness
Full command of this venue
I reach for your hand and it trembles.

The cold chill of Death sets in,
So that we remember summer in sudden unison.
A small token offered for His remorse.


About Pitboss14

Cosmic surfer of paradoxes.
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