Poem: Go On

One Version of Dying DayThe night sky, tinged with neon blue around the edges.

The day sky, diffusing into whiteness past the clouds.

The farmers plot, unbound by hedges.

The sacred Mecca, bewitched by shrouds.

 

Infinity is what we make it, the way we gauge this endless space

Immune to ploys — one cannot fake it — suffused with grace.

Where it goes one cannot say.

The answer comes on dying day.

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