When the day is done

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,

My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,

My crop of corn is but a field of tares,

And all my good is but vain hope of gain.

The day is gone and yet I saw no sun,

And now I live, and now my life is done.

The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung,

The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green,

My youth is gone, and yet I am but young,

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen,

My thread is cut, and yet it was not spun,

And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death and found it in my womb,

I lookt for life and saw it was a shade,

I trode the earth and knew it was my tomb,

And now I die, and now I am but made.

The glass is full, and now the glass is run,

And now I live, and now my life is done.

---

With thanks to Bob and Tom for pointing me here.

~

I'm homesick for a place I don't know, or that I've never left. I have nothing left to say and don't know how to say it. A dark planet was discovered, hidden after all this time, and in the human heart...

A story by Breece sounds hollow, contrived. There is nothing to follow: no letters, staged reading performances, contracts, deals, signings, secrets revealed by lost lovers out to make a buck. This is it, the final form, the last-day face that said it all. No 'progression', no reference to other books, no storyline, just this slim volume between your fingers, a life condensed to a few thousand words, contained within this thin jacket, the imprint of a hand on a windowpane, your breath in the early morning winter, January, now.

No afterglow, no fame, just a moment of rediscovery and then sink back to where you've always been. If you have not reached winter, then where?