Nameless

Herald darkness my old friend,

The Sun,

You’ll soon be overrun

By the hands that gently weave,

And in cruelty abide;

Hands that,

From formless graves,

Clasp and grasp and rise.

 

And they’ll craft a perfect light;

More perfect than yours.

They’ll do it with fingers manifold

And the gilded silk of a dying dawn.

 

Now, my friend, as ripe apples

Kiss the ground and rot,

So will we, you and me,

Find ourselves buried with the lot;

We too shall become hands

That worship and caress

The young night,

Our soon-to-be mistress.