…a weak ghazal

Where can your tongue lead me? To the last day’s end? The evening?
I greet you with hope, you spend, not me but, yes! the evening.

They once knew we knew but in the mêlée. Only the evening.
So, then, we suspend the morning miles; now, then the evening.

And where did we go wrong? To the right? The left? The evening?
And when were we ever really free? In the day? The evening?

Your end or mine, what’s the difference? A simple evening.
A weakening, perhaps? Yes, and more! The final evening?

Concentric circles mark the path to finish the evening.
Round the bend, or to the point of no return, the evening.

Concomitant boxes house the letters in the evening.
Houses transcend the meaning of yet another evening.

And for Once the portion and the whole define the evening.
The end? A terse beginning, an hour within an evening.


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