rest will come
late in the heavy twilight
when birds are still
save the one lone song of
a nightingale
sleep will come
like moondark waters
flowing in with the tide over
long faint shoals of
moonlit memory
death will come
slowly quietly
each thing lulled into shadow
until even campfire embers
have ceased to glow
dreams will come
twisting up through the void
with all the force of longing
urged by a burning thirst
for just one drop of light







9 old applause
