The Present Writer

An evening lamp; and something shown
From archives of experience known
A fire-conditioned solitude
By outlived ardencies imbued.

A memoried mind afoot to find
Rewards from failure left behind,
And by matured awareness told
How much of life the heart can hold —
How little, in life employed and planned,
The gnomic head may understand.

Thought-haunted room; and one for whom
Departure and disfleshment loom.
The ticking clock at evening's end;
And sleep, — thwart self's enfolding friend.
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