Late Nights

The clock says I’m crazy
as I sit all alone.
It must think I’m nuts,
here spilling my guts.

These phantom eyes
lurking in celestial thick
I see but can’t tell
if they look back
and stare
or care.
Or where they now are.

The clock,
that old ancient thing.
I wonder if it knows the idols of past:
Homer, Virgil, Petrarch.
Spenser, Sidney, Shakespeare.
Frost and Eliot.
All the rest are the same.
Now dead.
Only to be read.
Now dead.

Did it remind them too?
Or did they just stare
unlike us now
at those illusions of past.

All dead now,
with nothing to show,
save their past woe.
These lamps saw their stares,
and now I see theirs,
but who the hell cares?

Our stars won’t last.
They’re already dead.
Fading fossils still dead
as those up above.

The clock says I’m crazy
cause others agree.
But what isn’t crazy?
I ask those who see.

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