A great gob of scabrous emotion
Lies, wedged in the depth of my heart,
Knobbed and adamantine;
A dragging weight
Through long days’ drab routines,
Grating and scraping on my raw sensibilities,
Piercing the tender skin of melancholy,
Releasing the slow, pulsing vein of grief.
And for what do I weep?
Evil was overcome.
The world returned
To its old familiar ways.
Why weep for that?
Why mourn, why grieve?
Why lament the passing age?
A new sun has risen.
The sky is bright and clear,
Unstained by rolling clouds of strife.
I weep for the grievous toll of war:
The gaping, bloody wounds
Inflicted on those innocent souls
Thrust blindly in the cataclysm.
I weep for all that is good,
And best in humanity.
For quiet, stubborn courage
That defies the odds,
And keeps its sense of purpose
To the end;
Knowing the cost will be too great
For one small soul to bear alone.
For hope, and faith, and trust,
True guiding stars
That light the weary way for stumbling feet,
When strength is almost gone
And other lights are dimmed.
For the steadfast hand
Of loving friendship,
That takes no heed
Of danger or self-risk;
But is offered willingly,
Even in the leering face of Death.
I weep for the loss of a dear beloved friend;
Emptied of all joy and laughter,
Whose eyes are haunted
By the pains of this world’s wounds,
That time will never heal.
His feet must tread another path.
And the world is diminished.