The Brink

The noise of
life is setting the table
with derelict dishes,
and time moves on
against all wishes,
When the sun has dyed the palaces
of all our living,
in yellow pastures....
It's rather hot,
and I'll come back to my places
when the night
has begun cooling.
The sourwood and the sassafras
are ripening,
some quiet storm of dialog goes passing,
a burned out conversation
on a highway
not worth lasting,
Thousands of years of starlight
in a corner field,
in the dark suddenly,
those who fall from the range of heaven above
that strike warm having sentience
in flowers and gold,
and eat from the tree
of Eve's love flowering bold,
In her evening,
when consciousness befell,
even the crowns of kings could not
dispute or quell,
having come to a beach that
no ocean ever seeks,
Is it that life is worth living,
to find tame in the night
a horse run wild
In its apocalypse of wind,
only that heart which
comes close to a well
which it cannot drink,
borrows water from this
place it finds on the brink.