Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

Not the End

Since nothing is left of this interval,
your shadow veils the page
and the steam of your ardor
rises to leave.
But you, the poet, writer, learned scholar,
you the lover,
cannot disappear, even if
you cross the street and follow
other avenues of your invention.

This moment at night
under the weight of time
may stage a spectral play
in your theater of thoughts,
but you’ll keep on producing
colorful illusions, with splendor
as their charm, and you’ll wake up
like the beautiful Shahrazade,
with a new story to tell, each day.


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Prompt: Nothing left