In The Evening of The Dream

This evening I feel at last an overwhelming capacity
To fail and be done with it. At last I can fail.
If I don't now have hopes, because I for one have failed them,
Because I've lived just to a point, which is clearly beside the point,
Well I still have what I have, a quiet sense
Of my enormous failure, and a gathering sense of night
That is hopelessly dark, but merely night.
The sun sets as it sets, and if we somehow hoped otherwise,
Then let's just call it a day in which
We somehow hoped otherwise; when the day ends
Our hopes, it does not end what we hoped.
The stars rise as they rise, and if our wish is to change this,
That simply makes these the stars on which
To wish we could change this; should they grant us
One wish, these stars are all we could wish.
Having failed my own dreams, which clearly makes me a failure,
Which means in all that I hoped, there was never any hope,
I know I've lost what I've lost, but I'll never lose
My failure, and if the dark takes
My dreams, it can't take back what I've dreamed.
At last I am truly lost, and none of the loss is wasted.
When the clear sweet light is gone, there is the sweetness of what is gone.
In the evening of the dream, watching the dream become a failure,
Watching the meaning of the hope become the meaninglessness of hope,
None of the loss is lost on me: the light dies,
The stars shine, and I know
Just what I've wasted, precious hours
Made precious, because I've lost them
And gained their loss.

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