The ego axis of my revolving days,
Now grows faint to just a trace.
Where there was a seal so clear,
Now is a thin wax, a page so poor.
The starred ideals of my erstwhile Night,
Have faded in the approach of a new light.
Whether its a comet trail that briefly blazes,
Casting a light of onset and drifting traces,
Or a new dawn of familiar or unknown sun,
Is a thing I’ll know when it’s done.
The dull cord that strung old deeds,
Now grows silver binding better acts.
These not from ego’s desperate need for alms,
Nor even eeked by necessity’s toll-booths,
But acts demanded by scrolls encrypted,
Arriving at strange apt hours as sender intended.