Uncreated Light
       

Yours was the death, yours was the dying.

I found you in
the pauper's field

and something sang through me
(if there
ever was a song)—
which I could
speak to myself, very quietly,
and move along.

Oh in my heart,
do you not think I am a part of this?

Bless the failure, bless the flame,
bless my fruitless attempt,
the shame.

And what do I do with this love,
that sticks like pitch to my heart—and will never
let me go.

Why I am standing in your image.
Do not try to change it—
to turn it into something
joyous and free—
you are here—you are gone—
dead—
uncreated light.

Tweet

Copyright © 2018 Doreen Gildroy All rights reserved
from Trilogy
New Issues Poetry & Prose
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission