In the dark magnolia of time,
I sleep with my face to the west

where the past lies
charred and barren as
nocturnal folds of earth,

where memories leach into the
hide of my forehead gossamer thin
like pale debris on umber,

where silence reigns heavy
and the false safety of flesh
foresaken for ruin and the rot of history,

where I sleep alone
in the dust of my years.