2020-06-17

We each walk our way

Sometimes these paths cross in spring

But a plucked flower

We walk among such dreams that have died

This is the world to which we were born

It was not for us, this to decide

It was not our hands that gave it form

We sit at the end of an ancient ship

And watch the waves consume the bow

Where it was to go on this fateful trip

Is not something we are privy to know

It is not something that can be known

They say, for like the Tower of old

It set its sights on a hevn'ly home--

Though what heaven that is I was not told;

There will come soft rains, which if true

Will wash the blood from empty roads

Reserve for oblivion what no one knew

Nor cared to record its episodes;

And no one laughs, there is no joy

In this, a wretched suicide--

Cuchulain the sea sought to destroy

Do we think he more than tried?

ESSAYS FORTHCOMING