Goodnight

Twilights come, the earth's and mine,
The ancient planet creaking on its axis,
Moving toward the night, the man,
A minor perturbation, slumps upon
A wicker chair, aware that his own
Night is nearing. Gin in hand, he
Scans the flat horizon. What is left
To do? He's written all he needs to
Write. He's seen some pieces of the
World. He's raised children. Now,
He sits. The music which once
Was his life is noisome now. The
Pastel sky is nice enough, but not
Worth looking up from his gin
To perceive. The days, his parent
Planet shows, grow shorter, each
One by a minute. Corn turns
Gold, so rich in death, and that
Poor man, who's this poor man,
Gets up. It's time to go to bed.
Twilight's come. The earth still
Turns. The useless creature,
Drunk again, sits on his wicker
Chair and dreams of being where
The earth had been, some forty
(Thousand) years ago, a place
Where there was warmth and
Plenty, slightly suspect intimations
That the cataracts which bring
The salmon are not wholly real.
Does that matter? Maybe not.
The two twilights arrive in sequence.
Earth turns, hopeless, toward the
Darkness. I turn toward some
Sort of future, light or dark, I
Do not know. My greatest hope
These days is to be made once more
One with the earth. Dead or living,
Should I care? I can't. I drain my
Glass and stagger toward my bed,
Toward a place where I move, mindless,
As I wanted, with my spinning world.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 75 times
Written on 2016-09-09 at 03:28

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text