©2020
Steve King
All
rights reserved
I
have not found traces
Of
anything eternal
By
searching.
Nor
held in my reflection
Any
measure save my own.
Each
gathered moment
Emptied
of all others,
Touch
of rumored spirits
Fickle
as dying winds.
Found
amid strange silence,
Wondering
at my place
In
this peculiar dream.
Listening
in emptiness
For what silence shall sing.
