At dusk we bid farewell.
Restlessly stirring the days inside sounds,
making deranged concoctions in the clouds.
In subterranean wells, sirens are drowned by rain,
wind is amplified in the brain, sailing through sleepless nights.
Expelled into the horse latitudes of idle hours,
if only they could be painted like brilliant flowers,
a motley of colors to distinguish golden horizons
from the sea at large.
A farewell to your craft, adrift in ideas.
Eyes of red navigation,
the body a black expanse, to submerge, trawling deeply
for the coins of sunken ships and elusive silver fish.
Beneath these surfaces
the mystical coincidences are accumulated in song.
You’ve dreamt underbelly,
words radiating starboard from the hull.
From the bridge a farewell.
A hawk leaves the inlet
with talons clutching the metallic scales of an alewife.
With a glint in the sun, the imprint is seared into memory,
like a piercing cry
we’ll recall later from a different frequency.
The antennae of rooftops witness
many farewells of undetermined suffering,
almost human, the sound of the sun falling.
A bird of unknown origin,
leaving no wake as it plunges into the ocean.
The trajectory of its body, a descending shade,
with each moment the shadow increases
further into the loneliness of De Chirico courtyards.
Dusk, a farewell. The world spinning out of control.
Grinding to dust all the ambition that burned cities bright,
pressed into a daily toll, a number that will always grow.
It was through creativity that we learned of community.
These gatherings are not forgotten,
nor can they be swept into isolated piles
of suspicious eyes with no smiles.
Vulnerable, the tiny flames with no kindling.
Blow on the ends of our hope
before extinguished candles become smoke
and the landscape grows cold with sorrow.
A farewell to plans, time lapsed lives
that no longer strive but are slowed, compartmentalized.
Twilight is no longer spent applauding fireworks.
The future is no longer a bright sparkler
reflected in everyone’s eyes.
The gaze has been averted to a decapitated flower
that appears so much smaller as it sits on the water
before being taken under.
A farewell, the illusion of distance in beacon light.
A sweeping seascape of change with no compass,
the coming of an age born out of chaos without counsel,
save all those books and albums.
We’ll witness the weight of industry overwhelming humanity.
In shrinking spaces the imbalance is amplified,
navigating the collapse, like one of the damned,
with sanitized hands and covered faces,
peering into a void with no features,
like empty theaters.
It’s a tragic scene, is there any room left for heroism?
A silver lining in defeat?
Intrigue for imagined patrons
watching from empty seats?
Run the credits, words engraved in stone.
Save the last gasp for the projector,
exhausting its last reel of film alone.
Dusk, a farewell. Trains departing depots.
Wheels screetch, no one speaks,
voices swallowed in tunnels of what’s to come.
No parting kisses from the distance
or faces stuck to windows
like in old black and white photos,
waving handkerchiefs of goodbye.
The darkening of eyes adjust
to the damp unfamiliarity
we’re meant to breathe in.
Breathe again, the end comes to everything.
Yet, fear of the eventual end
is inherent in the fear that this may never end.
Is there light at the end of this tunnel?
Will the sun rise tomorrow over the ocean?
Will rain fill rivers to maneuver these bends
without our mouths consuming the land?
Without these thoughts can the bird songs
still hold sway in the chaos that canopies them?
Will they find the sky ceilingless,
or a desperate color
in the flutter of wings?
Will they glide on the wind
and the infinite it brings?
Time will tell, for now farewell.