In the disquiet of evening,

From twilight’s lovely circling fire,

All lives became lost in translation.


From this little time of now –

Praised for their work,

Artists only continue to fail.

It was a premonition that everything had been completed.

It was a sense that we had not endured –

It was all personalities separating to one.


Without causality,

Seeing things as they are,

There was a space –

A little larger than the universe

That could only be filled with a calm silence of our words:

Memories without sequence.

Perception without a perceiver.


Listen –

In a cappella voices,

A dark matter of past, future, and present,

Lead to a single point of view:

Painting us to invisibility

Calm, vacuous – free.


Hiding in the open,

We filled an old written history

In solitary lives of the many and the few –

A returning calendar of youth and old age merged

Painted in weathered images of grey & ivory –

An hour we could only remember to forget.


Here, from a returning end of days,

We watched a lighthouse completing cycles of diminishing brightness –

A beautiful emptiness along the darkened coast.

It was an epitaph and preface.

It was a release from expectations,

And a sense of freedom to no longer be needed here.


Dreams will come without a mortal coil.

It will be a moment between the sad café of the dead

And bright gardens of the living.


In the disquiet of evening.

There were now a few faint stars – like distant towns out on the horizon,

And we became adorned with a glow in garlands for the sacrifice –

Waiting for the beginning –

Never able to capture exactly who we were.


It was this little time of now –

It was a premonition of our multiple souls –

It was a destiny and desire to be forgotten,

Lost in translation

From twilight’s lovely circling fire.