the last of this light fades to bluish gray

on this last of all days--

the late afternoon of pitiful victories

and explanations--

and all who do not hoe your line

will denounce you for your rescue--

all who envy your position

will relish your failure and crow--

what shame when another sees them fall

and yet none go back as far as you to vindicate

your promise or their pledge to you--

you did the heavy work

and they hog the light rest--

now on this last of all days

when you give up the goal--the ordeal--the remorse--

and what will happen will happen of course

with or without your sanction--

your part played will be its own event--its own happening--

its own thing in itself manifest in creation--

now as this last light darkens to violet--a scar on the skin

of the horizon--and then to star-flecked black--

and all regret dissolves in the weariness of release--

it is not your trouble any longer--

on this last of all days--it is not your bother

and you will consider the fragrant twilight--

the lone cry on the farthest hill--

that once was you language--your gauge--your belief--

not now--now--last of all--you disappear

into the Absolute and stare back at this life through everything....

Content (c) 2008-2010 Philip Milito.