If only there were less years for these bones;
The subtle tock of a misanthrope clock -
But if every tick should lick
Its paraphrase tongue
Upon the horizon;
What more should I see
But the fury of insubstantial wrath
Caught as a black feather in the wind?

Will there be time for more?
Should I break beneath the question I would ask?

Were there less months for these eyes;
Would not the days and delicate ways
Surely be lost from sight as might
Its juxtapose touch
Upon the soul;
What more should I feel
Amongst its short-hand caress
But a black feather in the wind?

Would I dare ask for more?
Would I speak the question I would ask?

Were the less seconds for this tongue;
The intoxicant slur of a misbegotten word -
The frost-bitten dreams, less than they seem
Would parade their facade
Before my lips;
What more could I hope
But to breathe a whisper to
A black feather, caught in the wind?

After the evening,
Would it have been worth it at all?
To push the circumstance
Into one overwhelming question;
Would it be worth it to ask it at all?