Sunday, 6 February 2011

The Late Hour

The hour is late
I can hear
your fading heartbeat
getting weaker

slowly your breath
moves back and forth
whispering my name.

Ancient chants
can serve no use
your gods lacked power

to deliver
to aid
empty vessels

you lie abandoned
in the dust of death

awaiting that final moment
when the clock will stop
and tribulation will flood

over all that you were
all that you did

the hour is late
your breathing
now weaker
weaker

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