My son Dorian would have been 41 years old tomorrow.

My son Dorian would have been 41 years old tomorrow.

What good am I

When nothing I do

Can change the turning

Of the circle

There is no stillness

Much less uniformity

Even the sky will never

Be the same

The weight of its oppression

A predisposition

A collapse is inevitable in winter

It is not in my gift

To lift it

The rising is predetermined

The moon will never

Look this way again

Even the cold hard stone

I walk upon

Will be warmer in the afternoon sun

What is my influence

When the confluence of night and day

Promotes an eclipse

Only enlivened by a dead satellite

And the dust of the firmament

From dusk till dawn

Is my impact as binding

Words once spoken

Echo with futility

War poets died

Without a glimpse of lasting peace

What will change this

Frozen moment

Will it be poetic verse

Or reaction to a manifesto

As more than once was so

Breathe my gentle heart

Let this be a lesson

In imagination

A force beyond destruction

If poetry be love

Then love will change this world

If only once

Then for the better.