End of day at last.
No need no more to go forth.
Tho the journey be un-done.
Days end where they would not start.
Ain’t the thing they do do.
Like them dudes of Port Florence.
How bad the weaver wishes
For an itsy-bitsy candle,
For nights of deep darkness,
And winds, uh, pounding.
No lights for what the sun sets.
Under a pink blue black veil.
No lights for night’s desires.
Dusty bowls
pock a windy vale.
Far, far,
away!
All the
feeding frenzy is gone,
By the winding
pond.
I’ll never
know why.
Why.
The ring is
its own self. Defence.
The laager
itself deluding.
Why.
There is no
keyhole
For the locking
door.
Nor a hint,
For all the
trouble.
We’re in.
I’m here,
though. Stay!
I’ll never
go.
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