I won’t accept death delivered in prose.
Darkness fell twice tonight; can we still know
what’s real? Give me your hand and we’ll compose
ourselves. Do you recall, not long ago,
when one could mourn but not despair? When pain
made sense? I’m tired. Let us not be bound
by time, least of all these times, when again
we stand upon the brink. I hear the sound
of mourners keeping vigil in the night:
we’re but tiny flames clinging to the wick.
I want to touch what aches in us, the light
we guard to stay alive. My dear, come quick.
I hear a knock; I’m afraid. Is it you?
I dare to open and let hope come through.
