One September Night
At one with me, this silence
Serves as death,
For no long sighs will ever
Catch at my breath.
Such times have gone, and rhythms
Subtly change,
Where love in me lay dying
Lies only pain.
For love itself, so weary now
Has tired of me,
Its darts lie shattered, spent
And lent, disastrously!
While I plod on, toward some
Unforgiving night,
Where dreams still tilt at shadows,
Try as they might!
9 September 1985
poem by David Lewis Paget
Added by Poetry Lover
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