I cannot rage against the dying of the light-
rage against the tide
the callous or the morning
Early doors, she the veiled beauty glides
Black silk in ribbons over palest skin
And the dimple of a hip joint.
the finest fingers veritably ravel
back unto the spool.
Essence, fury, love, and loss alike
I cannot rage against such a sweet and private thing,
this one- frayed- assemblage,
nor in it’s gentle undoing
Chrisalides in batches over a steaming night
Allow the knots of our cells to soften
Yielding gossamer to the dying of the light