Nobody will come, nothing will change,
The day will continue to drag its hours
Through dusk, evening, then the night:
The cold will intensify, lodge in flesh,
In the bone, the silence tighten its hold.
The creatures outside – the visible birds –
Pursue their instinctive purpose of flight
Feeding, perch, chatter: perhaps they feel
The breeze now disturbing the garden,
But it is nothing to them, it is what is.
And they too are among the figments
Of what is, brought into sustenance or
Scarcity: neither comprehended any more
Than themselves; they and the world
Exist just as they vary and they remain.
The light is starting to fail, the sky turning
Blank, hardening to grey: the last of
The birds take themselves off, becoming
Invisible behind an occasional sound,
As I am, behind these remnants, words.
Originally appeared on VoegelinView Read More