The Gate At The End Of The Path

The gate at the end of the path is open,

and I sit on the cold step and look deep, into it's dark.

Just me, and the moon, each of us high, hung, dead, and flat;

held, as one, in the calm and hazy hush of an aged wake.

Tied by one long soft sigh of loss, of love, of life, of lust...

a weft of woes spun to silk.

Does the moon slip down it, or do I?

One lone salt tear.

Drip.

Onto mud.

The rust on the old gate is lit gold.

A halo of gilt. Is it cast from the beam of our silk?

Does it glow from what it has lost? Age, time, life, love.

It is all a blur.

I wait for the wind to come. Like it did that day.

Wild, from the west, full of oats and lead.

I will feel you in it. The thud of your hard, fast feet

down the path, away from here, out to sew your seed wide.

I will feel you in its bite. I will see the gun in your eyes.

I will hear that one long, loud lone shot and then you will be gone,

and I won't feel you then. The wind will stop, and all will be calm;

only the howl of my dead echo will live on.