This Fire

else the hour that offers solace
in quiet contempt for coming morn
should not share the shades of being
nor veil the voice of vices calling,
when ponders the playwright of purpose and meaning
lifting the letters from longing’s grasp
finding now fertile these fields once barren
and slips from slumber to slake his thirst –
 
else the anguish of honor failing
feeds a fire that fuels the falling
and holds the hero’s heart for ransom,
suspended upon the poet’s gallows
weighing wisdom ‘gainst an unweaving
of void and virtue and vital sin,
nurtured by nothing unnamed but known,
unmade manifest moved to be –
 
else the opening ends in silence
and heralds the hope of hidden truths,
light being lost, left to fade
tempting twilight to temper day,
a rose, a reason, in radiant bloom
stirred but strong in stolen moments,
wields the warrior word and flame,
a crusade of sorrow for secrets kept.
 

Because you can’t always say ‘I love you.’

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6 responses to “This Fire

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