Through it all – time was kept present
Always with roaming questions
That slipped away in a minuet of eights.
The flutes and the strings being the voices
That whispered away all his thoughts.
And, like magic, exist behind the black curtains
Of silken weave; dancing and flowing
Flowing and dancing away with all reason.
On another day he was found wondering
Around in his mind – looking for the look
That sets his view into a glass bubble,
Turning and whirling away from the walls of reality.
Alas, a gray brume appears; arising
From the river’s edge – setting a point
Between the fire’s dying embers and the mist.
The epistle burns as he waits in mad rhapsody
as it slowly overwhelms clarity.
Why must it always mean away?
Away from what; away from when?
The time to here always had another way!
Another path; another choice –
Another thing that was lost or left behind.
The rich paints on canvass are fading away –
Slowly losing their palette
The layered and lush colors so distinct
Now seem less clear, less certain – less.
The candlelight matters most in the end.
