some ancient groan,
bemoans me
on, or about the season,
this shortest Sol
regarding the standing, the writing is
from,
misunderstanding, might be,
all such symbols shown
before thee, and
peripheral,
the deferred disdained 
circumstantial – the truth
and
choosing more fantastical
views, falsehoods – the fool
shorter, the spans 
of light,
day by date, oh,
will the less, and less
grow?
not nothing but 
night, 
as even the reveries 
fade,
as entropy gains
advantage…

yet, still,
by some ancestral steady
whisper,
the trust conspires,
resides, in place of
faith,
that the cyclic descends on
the temporary,
the action, the
act,
the comedic needed to precede 
tragedy,
and, the
inversion
as well, for the story to
compel 
and linger as long, at
least,
a lifetime-
all stunted light, now
but
a crescendo, supposed,
just yonder, in the
longing.