When the Light was dim,
And Stars was bright,
He danced, enveloped
In bliss and delight,
Did Twelve on Twelfth's Night.
The other numbers,
He knew not,
In this little gap
that time ne'er forgot,
Did Twelve on Twelfth's Night.
Time, he knew,
Had left him behind.
To dance until
The Dark declined,
Did Twelve on Twelfth's Night.
Swirled up those
Dark Dark's steps,
To end the Dark
That ruled, unkempt,
Did Twelve on Twelfth's Night.
Slicing in
With sword from Light,
To cease the reign
Of Dark o'er Light,
Did Twelve on Twelfth's Night.
Honoured and praised
By those amazed,
And mark'd down in
Immortal words for days,
Was
I am the silhouetted figure standing alone in the dead yellow glow of the single street lamp's flickering, dying light. The cold wind blows the debris along the cracked street, shifting the image but not the feeling. No one will fix it. No one is even here. I stand alone keeping company to the tiny, hopeful sprouts emerging from the long jagged cracks in the ancient cement, starting their lives in the place that others have died. I stay with them, watching over them to make sure their tranquil growth is not disturbed. Neither of us have anywhere else to go, so why not stay? Every second spent is not wasted because it is spent doing something.