An Ode

Hard goes the way on

a path made of loss,

of feel and look then

numb and dark.

A cave with gold,

here a ruby,

here a ring and

here the pit bids you to sink.

Its song was born eons ago

when the dirt was warm

but the air was ice that

bit with char and

blew with dust and

pain only grew and

the sun only set.

Fix an ear to the east and

the song will lead to a lane and

you will go for

we all must.

And you will fall into the pit

and sink into the mire for

down we all drop.

You will see him,

his eyes made of gems,

his brow made to arch

his arms made from rope.

You hope he will save,

hope he will help,

hope he will pull you out of the well.

But he uses the gems to lure

and the arch to trap

and the rope to bind.

So you will stay.

And he will go.

And you hear his name echo,

ever will it burn and bite.

The last look as he left,

one last gasp of air

to seal your fate.

You miss him all your days.

And he goes on.

In time the land will sigh

and the pit will fall away.

The rope will slip but not let go.

And his song will fade,

but not in full.

It calls in the dusk when

the sky dyes red and

the rays soak the land with

gilt and glow and heat.

You see him in your mind:

tall and thin,

rude and dour,

grim and wan.

And you long to hold

his bony hand and

make him see you too.

The snow will fall and

ice will bury and

rot will ruin and

the moth will eat and

the news will vex and

the morn will wake and

the tree will grow.

But he will not come.

You love on your own.