Our time is come.
Bloodrain washes hard

over us all. I am one
holding on against it.

Would never have believed
at a lesser age

that I would live to be drained
by existence itself of 

a hope for salvation
yet still be hanging on

from habit, not from hope.
I look for light,

see a flash here and there
which may or may not be real,

which are so distant
and diffuse 

that they serve no purpose, 
offer no direction.

I am not alone, I know. 
I hear others out there,

calling.  Maybe that’s all we are
now: solitaries, crying out, 

waiting for a light,
clawing toward flashes

we think we see, unaware of how bloodrain
has stained us beyond cleansing.  

Once I longed to pray in joy.
I longed for my tongue to form

a prayer of peace.
Now I cannot speak

one happy word.
I cannot find a thing

to praise for fear
of being betrayed

or of being named
a betrayal by others.

Once I longed for light. 
I long for nothing now

except a silent end.
No prayer, no sound,

no rain upon me.
A simple drying out

from a deluge,
then rest.