The night drew out on his last words.
Silence, like a palm reddened in vermillion,
Tenderly touched and left its print on a new leaf.
It’ll die with the mark, will it not?
Many a winter stumbled
Over the heap of results of someone else’s
Questions to answers or maybe answers to
In a stygian tunnel of myth and numbness
The deeper one probes, the greater the dumbness.
Light: an arrow speared at random?
Beneath the rainbow, a death will be celebrated
Not mourned. Yet mourned. But will it be?
This day, flowers around the mausoleums
Laugh, waiting to be pulped under the wrath
Of times that will move backward and backward
Until the day the bird is released into the blue yonder.