Rime Of The Ancient

My arm, darker
than the tip of the candle,
cooling like the dead wick.
I was meant to give light —
but see the curl of last smoke
from the end?  Call that
the last will, or the last
bit of my will, at least
for the moment. It tells you
what I want done with me
now:  I want to rise away.

My arm, stark little twig black
against the garish night,
holding nothing, pointing.
See that distance it indicates?
I’ll never get close to the end
of the ourney. Call me the forever
step-aside on the path.  My arm
tells the story: over there’s where
I’m going, I need to go,
but I’ve been standing here 
for a very long time now.

Do this long enough…right,
it’s never long enough.  Never
the grip needed, never a long enough
fire.  Always the knowledge
of the destination ahead; never
the attainment of such a thing.
So perhaps I am meant to be
the One Who Does Not Arrive.
The one who tells his story
to the traveler who has made it 
this far.  The old one 
without so much
as a dead symbolic bird
to fall back on
as his arm drops,
at last, in surrender.