What do you have when silence sounds,
when breaths are heard and night resounds?
When meaning stalls and promise fades
while voices trail as if not made?
Or what of steps that measure not
between the places least forgot
but lie across (so freshly pressed)
a Winter’s coat exposed? Undressed.
And what of life (that Grand Routine)
at quest for something more pristine -
is it enough to warrant hope?
To stave the end enough to cope?
I’ve heard it said “Death is built in.”
A saving grace or life’s chagrin?
(There’s no need to commit right now.
Discuss amongst your group.) And how
about that face? That look, threadbare…
that found me in the window’s glare?
Forget it now …the clock has turned and shown its pace
while sleep impedes the answer that I seem to chase.
