His eyeballs, his soul’s
Glass windows, they opened
Once more then closed
Almost in silent haste
And very soon the curtains
Had white hovering wings.
He had no more lines
To speak – he had crossed
The stage, had sown and
Reaped, had heard his heart
Break, and knowing thirst
Had learned satiety,
I was there in the last
Act: it was beautiful.
Comments
Post a Comment