In the shadow of the Phoenix,
We find small twinklings of hope,
Nourished by fragments of love most fragile,
Without any happily ever after or certainty of any length or strength...
In fact, I am only certain that love is chased by despair
And then comes crawling back, tail between its legs,
Begging a sign of forgiveness for being so easily scared, so easily frustrated,
So mute and incapable of any meaningful utterance,
Or any reassurance that our path will lead us
Out of the dark we periodically enter,
Losing our bearings, if ever we had them.
We are disparate creatures,
Seeking a fit between our oddly patterned sides,
Brushing this way, fitting that,
Abrading and shifting,
Then starting anew as if our earlier trials were failures...
These were neither failures, nor missed shots,
But lies about love's true nature,
Its unremitting exigencies,
Its forced rendezvous at 3:00 am with the self,
The tired morning voice that bears witness to its hold on our conscience...
We awaken to the cost of the work without which
There would be nothing comparable,
And no ashes to rise from...
Books by James LaFond
link › jameslafond.blogspot.com
