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.
