A cup of cinnamon chewed
for every year I've waited--
elegant brown crystals
sliding, slipping
through the narrow crack
in the hourglass waste.
This is a century of black
skies and cold, starry nights;
the sigh...
of wind and breath:
twin melancholy whispers
upon morning's death.
Splintered wood, scarred faces,
embers white and blue; memories--
a star flaring...then fading...then...
hallow lights greet you
as you enter the gates.
A cup of cinnamon chewed
for every year I've tasted,
and every sigh I've wasted,
until the sun winks out
of my morning.
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