Softly the last vestige of light
fades from eyes filled with gray years
gazing through an open window out to sea
And is this the final rushing descent
to be with the waves pulled out and lost?
Too far beyond even the teeth of the world
grinding slowly to dust everything that was left behind
on the other side of that window to the sea?
A book unfinished, left resting on the sill
A cigar still smoking its last breaths
A bottle of gold left open, evaporating
and still with a steady rhythm
a rocking chair whose occupant
seems to have only just stood up to leave