Death's Lure

Once a blank word, distant with few defined edges,
Now undulates with a subtle movement, the lure of silken
form, which now rarely leaves my vision.

Now the bed is made, the sheets lay flat with the scent of evening.

No more the days of planning my decades slow unfurlment,
No more polishing of ambitions to be put out on display,
Lying boastful, in a reflected light.

The once blank word swims darkly in dreams,
Extends its delicate hand to assist, becomes less foe than
Long absent friend.

Singing the exile to sleep
Singing the exile to sleep

Singing....
The exile....
To sleep.