Requiem

Scarriet

In the long impending night
the wind speaks human,
a language of prophecy,
whispering words I can’t hear,
worlds I will never see.

The cold of death
stirs that breath.

Even the bleak moon
knows many arcane things
denied to me.

I listen hard, amazed,
but understand nothing.

Music and poetry
disturb the darkness,
mocking my ignorance.

Perhaps they are saying:

You had your chance.
You had your chance.
This is no longer your dance.

I remain, mute as a stone,
all my words blown away.
Lost in that impending night,
straining to hear, alone.