End of an Era

It is the end
Of all things, the book, the road, the shivering saber
That put out the vestigial eye; when I was young
I clung to hope and could raise the dead, the sun,
The son that might one day return home, prodigal
They would say and a black lamb would quiver readily
Over a spit. But in the middle of the night, I have gone

Again, leaving in the absence of home or foundation,
To tell you that little did we know what little we
Did know had broken out like plague over stones;
From these sticks, our women lament and our men
Look onwards, the decadence, the flame, the heart
And see an open wasteland spreading over.

But, really, it is not the end
Of anything, maybe a sentence, a street, a shovel
That stole our song; I have grown old, reaching
For the hollow itch of a phantom limb to scratch
Away the living, the moon, the mountain that became
Our throat; sorry, they have said, but nothing ends
Not even time. And in the middle of the night, I go.

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