Elegy, Ours
the stars weep ...
but not for heaven
they weep for vacant eyes
and hearts of parched desire
with tears untold ...
and uncounted
for where is the hunger -
the yearning for substance
that sets tongues afire?
where are souls that ache for
a dance of moon-pearls on the
breast of neap tide?
where lets the blood of passions -
the red glyphs of brokenness
that write love's promise
on a barren womb?
where are the butterflies of
belly laughs that flutter callow curiosity
upon the morns of May ...
or death's violent colors that
bleed hope to the bitter Autumn wind?
where rock the cradles of wonder
gently tossed by
the late-month midnights?
(mourn not, for a mother'prayer)
where are the shadows of wings
pressed to the wind,
or the nightingale's mate
singing surf-side requiems from
a worn picket perch?
where is the darling, absinthe-eyed
boy who left eager footprints on
the shores of Sebago?
where is the corn-silk hair of a young
lover's lass, that fell between
mouths in a kiss of haunting farewell?
where is the world that spins with
a spirit of romantic ire -
with kind, careful consideration ...
and poignancy?
(mourn not, for the treacherous heart)
oh, this wondrous world
still twirls on an axis, steady ... sure
but far too fast for the sake of
such fanciful concerns ...
we, of a heartrending, wistful temper
are a species, imperiled and rare
our doom - written on the
dying blush of twilight -
is a tragedy, unequaled ...
for no more will the miracles of
life and beauty hold a blade
sharp enough to pierce the heart ...
no longer will there be
a gaze left to sparkle with the soft
splendor of a creeping moon ...
and never again will lips meet in
perfect, tender prurience
or tremble with wild whispers ...
(mourn not, for the mercies of men)
yes, the stars weep, still
but not for heaven -
they weep for the simple coursing of blood
for the madness of molten marrow
for the thrumming of breasts
and for reefs of ruin ...
they weep for the breath of humanity
the virtue of mortality
and the authority of love ...
they weep for everything we are,
for all that once was,
and for all ...
that might have been.
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