Shrouding racked bones

in a mantle of black years

he, shed of vanity,

raising no cry against fate,

finding no rose renewed,-

just old man

bent over the chaos

of his fitful shadow,

struggles to counter

the weight of gravity,

heavily leaning,

his cane tapping

unsteadily against

the pitted glaze of stones.

---

From eyebrows furled

into storm clouds

and a keen eye brazed

on black heaven,

a few jagged thoughts

still ravel to earth

inventing his  last

green dragon world

from illuminations

gathered lifelong,

held in evidence against

a legacy buried in ash,

discarded notions left at the foot

of weathered battlements.

---

Slowly descending

westward to the gate,

having found no redemption

among men,

he, pitching forward

perilously on blocks

of detached, blown out steps,

slips into low shadows

near the outer wall,

merges into darkness.

Angels standing in the sun

raise no cry against fate;

he is soon gone, countenance freed

to breathe in Elysium.