Crag the Crow

Just a jot about the end of things for the  marginal mourner on this bier of rest that was laid in place for this  wary wayfarer, as an offering of pained fitful rest for this one,  too. And it gave pain to his fatted raiment. Hard wood offering a consolation and rest for none now, But much for later. Later is sooner than the age of these unyielding planks And less the span of the each one’s dissolute life. This one slept on a bier by baggage claim at the desolate port. The other went to his consolation encased in a blessed greenwood. Restless in life, a potential poorly employed, A piteous man wracked on the inside Now immolated and destroyed without. A man’s vibrant dark hair, roiling muscles and full face Thrashed by time’s tyrannical torture. His soul frittered away, lost at sea by piece through decades. The box ships him to fairer shores and to a harbor master Who forgets his just fare. And the wake of the sailing spruce May have drowned remaining ones under the dark...

It comes in the dark After the failures: regrets, burdens of the mind.  It comes to a man of some promise Who doubts his Creator Who doubts his own heart Who doubts the hope - though it is his core.  The hope is buried It’s very thing suppressed.  The hope is despaired Though it froths with great strength.  The hope calls the slumber to end, The hiding to become boldness,  The fear to take its place again and again as nothingness.  A single light, Here on my hand.  Entering my mouth  At this dark moment.  Dark depth and silence broken by industry, or fatigue, or frivolity.  All these being good, properly conceived.  We don’t do sarcasm.  We do raw honesty.  We rise from the errors.  We battle the enemy of the strength.  We rise to earthly service and find light’s source.  After and through the yielding to momentary death:      ...