Plea for Epiphany

In the stay,
in the pause,
in the denial of action, I burn
silent, uncertain at sunset
on the side of my bed,
waiting.

Below my window, days
pass like rush hours,
pedestrians shuffle nine to five.
Remembrance of words not spoken.
Even a stuttered 'I love you'
might have made
a difference. Instead,
this is it.

Palace of Wisdom? Excess leads to
more High Life, Maker's Mark,
chaser of Blake, Schopenhauer on the side.
Bliss lasts only
till Charon's drop
on those smoldering shores
of desolation.

Once again tricked.
Once again fooled
by Bacchus and his pards.
Not the music of the Nightingale.
It's the tune of Silence,
the Fugue of a man
who refuses to die
unto himself.