The Precious Ritual of Grieving into the Night

I do not like it when the dawn comes
it’s the end of dreams         awake am I or sleeping   it’s the end
it’s the end of things       the death of the dark    it’s past hiding
now I have to create myself the artificial night
blanket up myself a cave        but no one escapes the morning
 
I believe that adventure has become illusion
it’s the end of dreams       once it has begun and become a thing
it’s the end of driving once driven      and the struggling to reach
has been reached and there is no where yet to run      from
and where is discovery     when things unknown are found?
no risk, no journey, no bard’s song of glory, no, not for me
at home in the shadow of the morning
weeping for the hero’s coming
 
I do not know who my hero is
it’s the end of dreams     when they do not praise you back
it’s the end of things   once you lose the religion   idolization
belief in all you think they are and you are not    and they left
me behind    as heroes do   women they never love
only crush like roses on the road
wear them once and only for show
 
I cannot hold on to hope anymore now
it’s the end of dreams    that leads me to stillness numbing calm
it’s the end of things   abandoning keening loving as I drift across
a vast series of rivers    I leave behind as evidence I once believed
and loved and held dear somehow beyond all doubts   a man
could finally prove to be worth his ideals
and worthy of my faith
and yet it seems destiny
for all men
to prove
themselves
somehow bad and wanting
 
I do not want to weep over them
I want to put an end to these dreams   because they cause me hurt
I want to put an end to these things    because they make me die
each moment and with each and every cry
it kills me
 
This is not the way living is the way to live
or is it the way life shows me I’m alive… through this yearning?
And what do I yearn?   Beyond all this loss, a constant grief
so natural I do not remember a day without tears
and yet I yearn to go without
and walk like lovers do
yet be alone
happy-normal like you
and just once watch the world with clear eyes    no leaping heart
enjoy a simple morning without straying from the light
and stop myself from diving into precious shadow
to continue the ritual of grieving into the night.
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2 thoughts on “The Precious Ritual of Grieving into the Night

  1. “women they never love
    only crush like roses on the road
    wear them once and only for show”

    I am in love with these lines,… what a fantastic image…. the whole piece is wonderful, but those lines especially jumped out at me

    1. I wrote those lines because I was thinking about how temporary sex is, and how much more of a price women pay for it than men do, how I still feel like we praise men more for being naughty and blame women for making men naughty. As I philosophize, and turn my thoughts about sexuality into poetry, I was remembering also about the Old West outlaws, the Highwaymen anti-heroes, you know, the “love ’em and leave ’em” types who would ride into town and sweep women off their feet only to abandon them in the morning as some kind of jolly ritual. It always seemed to me that these male legendary figures were picking women like roses from the side of the road, wearing them only once, putting them on through their button-holes to seem fancy, or to appear as gentlemen, only to toss the roses off once they pull their guns out and show their true violent faces. It’s all very violently sexual. Like the raping of the land. Seduction even seems crude when the women are willing, especially when it all comes to the same abandonment in the end.

      It reminds me of how temporary relationships in general are, too. How some fair weather friends can breeze in and out of life. I do not know how they can do that. I try not to think about it, because when I do, it leads to me weeping.

      I wrote this poem when I was smack-dab in the middle of a depression — at my most emotive — I have not read through it since I wrote it, and here it is, all here and never edited. Some poems come out like that, eh? I had to write that day. It’s a release and a passion. I’m happy the poem came out when it did. A testimony.

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