The quiet lights come, raising the dark curtain;
Far-flung nights and days. An intermittent thing;
Unbelievable, away from touching, enigmatic, as
Though divided from self. Action, see, is another
Matter; the fling is just memory; what fools await
Fate's hand! Tender soft eyes to me, just waiting.
A felt sense, rather than an actuality, but so real!
The caress is as gentle as a whispered endearment.
Nothingness, that flight of spirit, is close, holding.
I thought, yesterday; I had climbed the mountain.
Now, that being complete, no worlds remain to be
Conquered? Hardly, lad, this was never the case;
As they have written it, life is one mountain after
Another, and that each, in its difficulties, is hard
To assess. The peak of one is quite different from
The other: jagged, or smooth, and then, sometimes,
Broken, like vials of shimmering glass; a clear
Reflection of things, but frightening. Death's door
Is around myriad pinnacles. It's opaque darkness
Defies definition: a blank, and they neither open
Or close shut. Yet, do not be deceived, they are
Waiting for you, patiently, and fold quietly behind
Your faltering steps, a path which has no direction.