Is it possible to know the loss
before it is taken?
To feel the hurt
before it is given?
I weep not for what has happened,
but for what I know that will.
My heart breaks for a sorrow
not yet lived in
I feel a pain not yet there.
Am I so eager to feel the touch of death
that I will find him before he comes to call?
Does my blood run so cold
to preempt what comes tomorrow
and force it on the shoulders of today?
Or could it be,
through some misguided sense of honour,
I have come to think
that by bleeding out before the sacrifice
I spare myself at death,
and so drink, early, a cup less full.
Monday, 22 April 2013
Thursday, 4 April 2013
Again have I written, and again thrown my words from me in disgust. Poetry? It seems a greater jest than any I know. Explain to me how I have reached this state of degradation, having fallen so far from my lofty perch. Words, that once yielded death at my command, now lie empty in my stockyard. Tools with no skilled hand to use them, that for all the world may not exist. The shame, we cry, and the agony of waste. Helpless, though alert, watching with pity the efforts of the blind, stumbling poet desperate to retrieve the shadow of his former glory. Tread me hastily, but the footprint on my back will I remember. Once threatened, never forgotten, I press on in anger to the key. Its shape I know not, nor the door to which it fits. The joy is in the seeking, not the finding; once found, challenge lost. So cry fie and wrestle on. The sourer the ascent, the sweeter the view.
Written by Josiah English at 15:37