Poetry – Dying Light

Dying Light

It’s all darkness in the end,

said that old man by the dying light,

of the day the campfire flickered,

I felt the death of night;

why does the flame burn,

if the result is ash?

Why does the mind turn,

to the thoughts of black?

Cold, Cold we say and light a fire, but the heat becomes smoke,

Old, Old we think as we grow,

We bloom, we wither, we sleep, we choke;

Our only cover is the black,

Past the dying light of the flames,

That flicker once bright, can’t cackle a name;

Cold, Old, is the dark in the end,

But without ember lit we see the darkness within;

If we’re at piece with the coal so dark of the night,

Take a breath of the smoke of that last dying light;

Our light is dark and our dark is light,

Spoke that old man by the last dying light