Let there be war.
Let us open all the doors
And invite the ghosts in.
Let us empty the cupboards,
Dig up all the bones
And lay them out: let there be war.
Let the wheels turn;
Enough of this stagnant peace
That is no peace at all.
The thundering lie torments me;
I am disgusted by the deceits that
Underpin it.
Better the honesty of war…
In the darkroom, there is not space to breathe.
In the darkroom, there is not light,
Nor possibility of light;
Not love, nor the possibility of love.
Possibility is in the lightspace:
In the darkroom, there is only certainty
Or confusion.
This is how it is,
Or everything collapsing.
Never enlarging,
Except in the dismaying growth
Of disaster.
Nothing begins here:
This is the graveyard of hope.
This is…
Dark night. Wild wood. The moon howls. Gorse grasps, branch cuts, brier tears. You run and you run and you run. The ground is broken and betrays your feet. Ice grips, frost crackles. But this is not the night of beauty. You are lost. Crows cackle in the dark — this is their midnight. The darkness owns the land. Feet twist, hands reach, and you run. Why
The heroes and their golden arcs
of triumph and laughter
cannot come in here.
Their shoulders are too wide;
their embarassment of riches
too substantial;
their epic songs too loud
to be heard here.
Welcome to the underworld;
the heroes are not invited,
nor possible,
nor heroic.
Here, there are only
the wounded,
the unwise
and the unwieldy.
Those who have been crushed,
been broken by tasks too great…