SLOW COAST TO FINALE IN 'A' FLAT

I have nothing left to say…
There, I have articulated the end.
Now, which is fitting tribute,
many years lost to incredulity:
that – which is genuinely complete,
for it is so.

The tangled filaments
of my spinning wheel chaff
their cotton twill, hay and rags
stuffed deep within.
Reclamation into dusty bins
from where I befell
- complete.

The account of my overseer
all resources sheered –
receding and robbed,
greedily vacant.

Lock the wraiths of occasion
lording over my desolate shell.
Lay forbearance,
that devastated hallmark
upon my discontented creed.
For no rebirth stirs the silt of May,
and busying flax caught heavy,
in ambitious grandeurs resigned
instantly,
to decay.

This concave muddle
of predominance and filth
belies that unholy launch,
into renewals brief.
Except once…

…that I pledged my trove
to moldering husks replete
and clotted dizzying fancy
in this empty-headed devotion
built rickety upon the notions
of ceaseless spring;
now disenchanted youth.
Gone,
bitterly, at last
for I have nothing left to say.