The Thinking Poet



There's finality in a sunset.

Beauty too to be sure,

But beauty is like cool water to a parched tongue,

Tender words in troubled times,

The dog curled at one's feet;

These we accept without question, gratefully.


Watching without need of haste golden laminations in the west,

Crimson seeping to a cloud's underbelly,

The slow leaden drift of night

Stings consciousness of inexorable ends,

Brings down the curtain on a day

And tweaks mind's tribunal to enquire:

"What have you to say as time drains away?"


And I, with untouched resolves,

Acknowledge habit's easy slide,

The daily drift, the cliche-ridden ride.

Speechless I stand, another day older

Staring at a light-leeched sky

Watching countless days float like dandelion seeds

Far and lost to sight.