An Ending

sunrise

An Ending

A touch of wind upon my brow
No sounds, perhaps a cricket early to the evening choir
Funny stains upon my hands, little spots
And skin that stretched less like skin I used to know
Oh you could say it is the melancholy of evening
The sun withers against the darkness to come
It has always amused me when the soothsayers sing
That morning is best for everyone
I linger now captivated by what I had to say
Knowing well the stager of age and reason
Will leave me somewhere soon along the way
A stony shell of having to be pushed forward
And pried backwards to nothing I would have
Should I until the end be master of myself
A tear that needs no wiping
A smile that needs no eyes to judge its mirth
A touch that lets no print upon its finder
A breath that well must be the last