Photo by Guillaume Galtier on Unsplash

 

Too many words

and

our hearts are

conspicuously silent

when addressing

midnight feasts or Lenten fasts

nothing lasts

except the majesty of the momentary

singularity of an event horizon

where voices echo birdsong

like dark eyes at a funeral

warning us of our own death,

granted not foretold,

follows in our footsteps

helping us to slip off the ledge,

as these cliff paths crumble

into sky

beckoning bird song

above sea level;

where richly tapestried

dolphins

grace us with their presence 

leaping into rain out of a

dark swirling sea

while occasional oblivions

pass us by

as time comes a-roaring

out of a high stippled sky,

composed not created,

and saying goodbye