Making Overtures

Night. 
A scantily clad sky, 
with unkempt clouds. 
Moon was climbing. 

Caved in. 
I had nothing left 
to say, except 
soundless poems. 

No regrets; 
in this climactic 
struggle of life. The 
pain eases, when 

memory fails. 
The flesh engages the 
spirit. End would wait 
till the grass banks.