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by Charles Carreon
Sorrowful
endings,
Endless mendings,
Long nights spent in loneliness and grief.
Stars grinding in the heavens,
heart laboring in heavy, dull thudding,
the mind overrun by armies of disenchantment.
Night is truly the time of bereavement.
Boxing up sorrows wholesale,
making a pyre of regrets,
a bonfire of woe,
Ah the heavens cry and
to their song we add our painful wail.
How long before release?
How many deserts must be crossed?
How many graves must be filled?
How many wombs passed through?
How many days? How many lives?
How many times to taste the honeyed knife?
No number will suffice until the time is right.
The worst horse runs at last,
Feeling the pain of the whip
In the marrow of his bones.
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