Half Past Twilight

It's half past twilight
The ancient one squats
In the smoggy half light
Of that hole in the wall
That the purveyors of concrete
Call a window

His mind lingers
Around nothing at all
In a faraway place
He sometimes calls home;
His mind meandering
Around half thoughts...

Rising from his lips,
Seeking out both
The open lighted spaces
And the darker spaces
Within, he exhales
His memories
And his hopes
Mingled together
In the smoke
Of burning dreams
And burning schemes
The mise-en-scène
Of a life consumed
Lived half past twilight
In a place called home.