All the Many Days

 

 

 

All The Many Days

 

Though birthdays seem to come and go,

like a clock's pendulum swaying to and fro,

I ponder why then time does not

allow the ease to reset the last dot.

 

Standing at the door’s way

a form, holding a white candle,

a flickering silhouette against the dark;

the posture neither enters nor exits;

 

Nor does it say

why it passes this way

or whether it will stay

or go.

 

The imposing figure does not move nor sway,

merely a form furrowing the white light;

a presence radiating forth

to name each frame hanging on the wall.

 

A whispering voice, in trembling dismay,

neither mortal nor specter, seeks a breath’s last stand

and demands the account of me

and all things hidden by so many wondered years.

 

"How have all the many days

come to this one moment now

and why did you not sleep?"

the voice asked.

 

I replied, "The time and years did sway

and through dance and song

I laughed and cried – for I was once

to be that or this. And so now, after all - life is still.

 

Will you tear at my fay

when you strike at my name?

Speak words of comfort

that I shan’t soon be a dearly departed!"

 

"Only after I leave will words say

that which was saved from last pray;

wish upon the candles so to live another day."

an echo was the last sounding answer.

 

And thus, another year was my play

as I took each candle and wished

to find many more a day -

where have I come to now - who will say.