Slipping away like weakened graphite pressed
between aging pages
the words crumble into shadows,
an osteoporosis of eloquence
and vague shifting gaps in memories,
a dry brook running itself into the hungry earth.
The dawn elicits no light,
the night shelters no sleep,
and thus steeped in the twilight hum
of every day
time steps ahead.
There are hints, taps on the shoulder
slight passing perfumes of muses moving underneath the distant trees
carried on the wind, but
they leave me lonelier still when they stream on by.