May I please return to an old theme
That I've beaten half to death by now?
Thank you. You're too kind. You're just that dream
Of forgiveness never found, somehow.
The fire in the grate and the child spun
Out of sheer and irrelevant gold
Are metaphors our sun had begunThat I've beaten half to death by now?
Thank you. You're too kind. You're just that dream
Of forgiveness never found, somehow.
The fire in the grate and the child spun
Out of sheer and irrelevant gold
When it first determined to grow old.
It will grow old, the sun, to be sure,
Of human metaphors. It wasn't
Ever actually young. The far shore,
Time done, buries done suns by dozens.