Portents

When the sun fell down
its light, having failed, went out.
The sullen moon, unstable,
mourned a sky gone black.
With all that, can this world’s end
find some way back?
Even dawn is late
when night is done
and the sun, cautious,
arrives delayed.
Our last lost hope
for a final truth is gone.
Those who are patient
hang along for the ride
to learn, soon enough. Their end of time,
being timeless, is forever, as it procrastinates
in designing fate, making us finally wait
on the designation of some last date’s sign,
still unknown, of our own deadline.

Kirby Congdon