Poetry

Litanies Against Dying, 5 (187.)

The night waxes
to a melodious slow burn
until it glows like a candle,
and this snapshot
is the one I’d use
to encapsulate my time.
It becomes a little something like
Schrödinger’s twilight:
the night is neither
ending nor beginning,
but stretching
into its perpetual eternity,
the grain of sand caught
in the center of the hourglass.
Life is not so simple as that.
There must always be a motion.

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