Along the path through the trees it seems
lamp glow lurks in the shaded barrel
of night’s revolver. A bullet of light
pierces my eyes, surprises my soul.
In this still, momentary nirvana,
I die a deathless death, of calm, of bliss.
Morning will gather the shards of my being
to fashion again the lattice of a new day
where I’ll walk once more toward the revolver of night,
seeking my death without death in the mist.
* * *
© Gregory V Driscoll 2011
