I marvel
at the dying glimmering light of the day
streaming through the stain-glass windows
I reminisce on
the panoply of idle Sunday afternoons
the vows are made
the oaths are sworn
in this act of finality
there is a calm solace
a quiet certainty

I no longer dream of
of those paths not taken
all is silent and shimmering
a temple, and a garden path
guarded by seraphim
wielding flaming swords of gleaming white light

the road ahead is open
into the deepening purple of twilight
soothing the torment and the terror
that rages in my shrinking, darkening soul
there is no solution
no grand vision or prophecy
only the endless miles through the desert
away from the tumult and the crowds of the ravening city

all that is left
is this certainty of existence
and the vague hope that time will work its magic