Every dim-lit candle burns away
wistful melting wax reveal,
an ill-formed layer - cold-gray ash,
the burnt calendar days and rotations
Passing across a channel or walking along an edge,
the brow beckons inevitably
to barren landscape below,
to time well-traveled
Every dim-lit hand of minds’ decay
watching in waste’s rotation,
a permeation of broken ideas or trite remainders
through worn pages, dimming screens
Passing through some type of afterlife,
some pervasive move into
the post-mortem of certain ideas,
to permanent reminders
MM 7/16
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