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.’