Is it true that a man knows his final dawn?
Can he smell it in the crisp winter air,
hanging in the morning fog?
When death’s looming hour is upon me,
pulling memories from my skin,
how willing will I be
to let the good man in?
Can he tell me, this stoic thief,
that I lived just and fair?
That there was a meaning in the love of summer’s stare?
Is it more noble
to go without a fight,
than to brace myself against
the silent, roaring tide?
When hands limp
and heart loses time,
what truly mattered is left stranded in the light.