Young Writers Society

"Via Dolorosa"

I want, my wanting empty and free:
Beggarly heedless steps in slipping sand.
The wind recalls an anger –
Something red and living like a second heart
Stirred by the stark rush of the hours.
Reality, vacuous and fetid,
Is a disappointment to these eyes.

For a hilly moment I am all
Running feet and spreading arms,
Outstretched like shabby flightless wings.
But then you are at my heels,
Your hand on my arm, stilling my
Childish pretense of liberty,
Holding me like a breath.

Your affection has ebbed and died,
But that is not the nature of my zeal.
I was a fool, and now a lunatic –
Was it not poetic to die for love?
Ah, idol or deity, I care not!
Mortal heart makes no difference, because in death
I too will forget, and that is travesty.

I have seen too much; the passers-by may close my eyes
Against the probing exposure of the rain,
For I shall not: in unconsciousness, I will not succumb.
They say I have lost my bloom –it is yours, all of it, yours.
I kneel in sentient poverty
And the moon, a helpless mother,
Studies whitely my simple pain.