Sip large, drink deep, let ghost dog play.
There's world enough and time, you say,
to share what others can only delay.
I am no Bogart,
nor was meant to be,
to give you up,
to sneer and leave,
no actor's false dignity for me,
no "we'll have Paris"
no "play it again"
no screenwriter's conceits
no kiss that ends
in a credit, trailing up the screen.
No lines, no touch, no fair,
the butterfly queen laughs.
The lines were drawn so long ago
and few who live can tread this path,
to pick a way 'tween hope and woe
when air is black and progress slow.
I held a sword, I held a staff
and far ahead I heard you laugh.
Calling out, you promised joy,
and I an end to my toil.
Beginning or end I cannot see,
slumped gracelessly to one knee
but shouted out, "This is not death."
I but pause to save my breath
and whispers come back with the wind,
"She has already set you free."
