I don’t want to live in a cage, crepuscular creature that I am; and, as the night folds her weary lids on the words of day…
…and dusk and dawn leave me for the lawn, I consider the premise that twilights are better than won.
Battles won, battles lost, old soldiers count the cost and remember comrades that stopped their living in the past.
Stories told and those never written reach out to tug at my sleeves, an idea flickers in front of me, momentarily present, then leaves, still wrapped and untried.
A thought provokes inaction in my befuddled brain. I watch it hop away, like the wounded soul it is.
I walk, metaphorically, as one who has never walked before, then I run; but, too soon. I fall. Down a rabbit-hole? No. Just back down to the reality that gravity is a serious thing and should be accepted as such.
I touch upon the subject of rebirth, the Renaissance, and lemurs, then shy away from those things to dwell shallowly upon the inevitability of the next second being my last, and soon it is over and done.
There is nothing in this world that affects me like the beauty of living.
I pop another phrase on the burner to warm.
It is lost in a conflagration of flame.
My words are your words – be kind and use them sparingly, or to excess.
My tidiness causes such mess.
My dawn and dusk are only separated by time.
Time waits for me, patiently.
And my time here is done.