Third Encounters of the Closed Kind
A third encounter with feckless fate.
Some closed strutting by the peacock past,
but snapchat viewed just far too late,
the span across the path just far too vast.
Brushed off, crushed shoulders in the street,
rushing rapids towards uncertain days,
eyes stare down at speeding feet,
grimly fixed on different ways
retreating. Head in backwards toss,
invulnerable to stupid loss.
Sad, when you can no longer call
for fear of a scornful glance,
or, worse, no answer at all:
suspicious to trust to open chance.
And, of course, it wounds both ways:
well, we know that it must,
bloodletting the end of days,
cutting deep into roots of trust.
It has been played out incessant times
in ignorance, by those who loved
and watched, as ashes from above
fell, to careless choke the dove.
The sun falls dark as the moon climbs;
she ghostly watches silent crimes.
And how many years to rebuild
that which is torn down,
that which was casual killed?
It rots in pieces on the ground.
Fragments there will lie and glisten,
still we will refuse to listen
to the echoes in the weeping stones
when we find ourselves at last alone.
And at the final curtain call,
before the barren wailing wall,
just how many tears will fall?
Enough to water arid deserts like rain;
they will not bloom, will fall in vain.
For all the water ever shed
will never bring back what is dead.