I can think of no better metaphor

Than the glorifying sun

Yielding to the inkwell of the night

At the end of everything;

Time – such a cruel mistress –

Finally running out,

The sand in the hourglass

Surrendering the last of itself

At the journey’s end;

And, at long last, it was over.


Another Cloudless Morn



Another cloudless morn,

The drops of dew glistening

In the pre-dawn light

Of the streetlamps standing sentinel high above us.

There is mist o’er the place

Where sand and shore are united once more,

Where blue meets gold as if for the first time;

Indeed, the sun will unfailingly rise,

Tomorrow, and very likely the day after, too,

And the dew will glisten,

And the waves will roar,

And I will be older

By far.




My past blew away like smoke,

Fire and lightening streaking

Through the clouds,

Plumes of ash billowing up through the blackness,

As I, electrified, stood enraptured,

In the eye of the storm,


The opportunity to sink down to my knees

And worship

At the altar of my weakness,

To watch, helpless,

As the ocean of my youth receded,

And to rise, dazzled,

As the stars emerged on that cloudless night,


Making the broad brushstroke of the galaxy

Shine with the brilliance of one of those Arctic sunrises

On those mystical days when the sun still rises,

But defiantly fails to set,

Not forever,

But just long enough

To say, victorious,

“I prevailed.”