~ by Aconitum-Napellus
I was wrong and nothing cracked
but every moment moves away
from the sharpest watershed for you.
A birth, a building, a star filled slew of life –
and then the slowest winding down.
At last the end. Your death a crease.
A fold wherefrom this slides, and that,
back to living, or here to the afterwards
where we are left,
our faces turned to Easter Island masks,
and after becomes an empty stretch,
an everlasting fall.