Read it Live
dedicated to promoting budding poets, writers and bloggers

At the end of the day,
it’s just you and me.
Age and time dance
hand in hand
like a curious symphony,
discordant with physique
and texture,
A wrinkle, a cramp,
a creak in the neck,
like old woodboards
in a dilapidated house.

The trouble is not over
as things settle down,
as the dust of mortal fiber
spreads its wings
on a shadow
of a frame,
a frail being in its own right.

Previsions and revisions
play a role
in the morphing of time,
as space and meaning collapse,
to give a mirror
enough vantage
to show the universe.

I will arise and bow now,
(clicks and ticks in my poor old back!)
as the night is over,
and the revelery must die.
Moments must die,
distances expire,
as the visions separate the mist,

And we finally see.