Thus, deeper through the undergrowth I flow;
for soon the time will come to disappear.
When kissed beneath the cosmic mistletoe,
it shows it’s time to leave this biosphere.
I’m worn down to the bone [and marrow too];
the deed is done and here there is no food.
My rendezvous with life is overdue:
The time has come for mortal rectitude.
Although it feels that way when in the raw —
when I forget to wear my cloak and crown,
or wander back through winter’s open door —
the dark therein can never take me down.
On this grim globe no man of light belongs.
He’s only here to sing his simple songs.
© Alan Morrison, 2018