© Steve King
All rights reserved
These times linger
as days always have:
swirled hatreds from every source —
sudden, ancient;
the pull of flesh
and sundering jealousy,
a fine desire for place
that brings only unsettling rage,
broken fingers clutching
at a stony patch of ground.
And so…
Visions of honor,
calling ancient glories,
pomp and trills worth dying for
at least at the first.
At least for those the first to die.
Burnt offerings scattered on the way,
thoughts of a finer golden age,
when giants ruled the earth—
as we do surely pray
our age may be someday known
through the throes of far imaginings
and amnesiac nostalgia…
Then too, shuttered stares,
and stunted murmurs,
victims in darkness,
wondering at closed doors,
waiting for the relentless heel,
bloodied fingers tracing scars,
tracks of old lacerations,
some visible,
some beyond…
Quiet agonies
outlived in silence;
or agonies that long outlive their cries,
tears to wash a wasteland of regret;
even the most casual of sins,
some not even hurtful much at first…
High contentment
for the certain ones,
something other for the rest.
Raptures out of reach,
throngs of naive martyrs
ever unknowing,
praying for the eternal,
caught in the here and now,
waiting for a someone else,
to usher in some better day.
