25 Years

The low-hung harvest moon paints a scarlet on my windowsill
The morning star in pale blue always seems to disappear
I’m tongue-tied and trivial when seeking the truth
I’m a small flame, but I will still wait
The filaments are burnt up in their glassy bulb’s volcanic black
The darkness ages, livid, lost in aspect to the sun
At daybreak the sunlight emblazons the truth
We are ruthless when we are restless
25 years I’ve been lost in rumination
Of friction and fear and old regrets that keep me straying
And I will run if I alter nothing but my angle to the sun
I will run and forever let the darkness be the memory
Of the hollow places I’ve been fleeing from
The last good things worth keeping melt away
But I will find my place
In the fray of their absence
And I won’t spend another breath on sighing
This fog into the cold
Tell the sun I’ll be waiting
For the winter to recant it’s invitation to the comfort of the graveyard
Darling I’m doing alright