Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Hostages, a poem


The universe has taken
hostages and made
demands we refuse to meet.
Now, the walls of night
keep out only as much
as they once kept in,

all of nothing. Every
star that knows my fate
has hidden itself at last.
I let go of the past
and found nothing else
to which I might cling.

It is either belief
or the nihilist’s void.
No center ground would hold
my weight. I’ve grown as heavy
as time, as heavy as
God’s hand on heaven’s wheel,

all dark energy.
What hope for hostages
in our cold distant endings?
The shabby uniforms
of yesterday are on
parade. Salute their passing.

Stephen Brooke ©2013

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