The empathy that kills, kills
The love that loves does, too
The drunken haze of other days
Returns, without the drink
This is for you
That makes me think
Euripides was right
Not light, but night
Without end
Like a poem for a friend
The writing cures all,
Nothing is its thrall
Until the writing ends
Abrupt, corrupted,
The parties contend, within
The writing elevates
That deflated ball
But in success
The great ones fall
Down, down, down
Can you own the page?
Feel the wrath,
Embrace the rage
Against and for
Here is my door
And so the task renews
Inside, always inside,
While outside
The sun shines
On a dying world
I dare not venture out
I see your doubt
But take no more
The steps are broken
We remain awoken
To the nightmare
That is care
Wrapped in flags
Of destruction
We? Too few
The rest flew south
Where icebergs collide
Melted figures hide
In seas torment
That is what I meant
And so the page begins
Anew, impossible
Stuck on repeat
Not total defeat
It is warm inside
John Passant 20 March 2017