Who decides?

And while I sit here contemplating
the wistful sinner's next move,
he takes a bow and moves out.
Where? I don't know.
Maybe to faraway fields, empty, empty, beckoning.
This little light is almost down to its last.
He lit it once when he was growing up,
When sin was new, pleasure unending, and
the world, his playground.
He was good though –
the light always burned high and bright.
Often he asks me why it is that men die.
Why? I don't know.
When this light goes out, he will know.

If I should die tomorrow -
To your genius, love.

Night now only wields its lonely scythe.

(2005)