Like waiting for rain – or the sun to shine
after the tempest has torn every vestige
of blurred belief to shreds. Like praying –
hands clenched, eyes closed, for relief
from spectres dread singing uneasy in
tortured ears. There is no comfort in
wearing steep ambition bequeathed
by years of greed and utter gluttony.
You howl at the moon in desperation –
avow to repair damage your hands can
reach in fine surgery of heart and mind,
swear oaths bearing antique truth at
ancient runes of your ancestors – but
you’ll despair. Like waiting for rain and
dying in the drying air, like seeing signs
saying there is no truth but that which is
and that which is not, too aware which
are lies and which are beyond repair.
Like wearing the refuse of disunity as a
distinction – ‘tho whether the sun will
shine again after the tempest won’t
matter to you – you won’t be there.
© 26 October 2007, I. D. Carswell