I have lived in the pain of you,
knowing hurt does not outlast us,
knowing all things do come to rest,
that dusk takes each day through its door.
Shall I wait by that door, the door
that leads to night? No one sees
the whole truth of things, only
that part of it he holds close.
Let each restless dreamer wait
within, holding his torch of despair.
Who has thrown these slender daggers
at the sun? Blindly, blindly,
have I stared at his face. Let
the melancholy optimist
loosen his grip on the moon and stars.
They have only carried him home.
Stephen Brooke ©2013
a tad more obscure than my usual