It’s hard to love well, again.
Brittle bones of loves lost
litter fields of sorrow,
commanding the heart’s vision,
stifling the souls voice.
With painful consistency
their sad refrains whisper
through restless, endless nights,
reminders of what is no more
and give that awful power
to the emptiness that’s left.
Indifference sought becomes a
prayer of hope for … deliverance.
Oh that with time and effort
and the grace of Happy Gods,
this battered spirit may
reassert its will to life—and
join its Rite of Passage
among the living humans being.
Copyright © 2005 Robert D. McKinley
All rights reserved.