All our glories die like sunbeams
Hunted by the glittering night
For sport
It has nothing else to do
No history to write
This blue and silver silent night
Streetlights sad orange glow
Makes a poor contest,
Gives neither quarter nor succour
But the silence grows
As the hours mount
To take the place of a peace
You sought in that gentle touch
What do you touch now,
The air is no friend, it
Chills the hours, slowly
Fades the memories
Until there is

Nothing

Nothing

Except that pale blue shirt
In the basket in the corner
One arm draped over the edge
Touching the floor
Is it forgotten
Will it still be there in the morning.

© John Pirtle
2004