The She

Torn from the depths of some profound despair,
The easy answer and facile response
Shall not suffice for this despondency.


The dream that once existed at the world's inception:
That all was One and of a whole unified


Has been eaten, swallowed by complacency and doubt.
What we are now is not what we were then.  No!


Brief as our lives are; briefer still
Were the days of orginal creativity.
We have moved from that bright beginning
To this bleak ending and are not the better for it.


There is of course no answer to the question
(We do not even know the question).
Only a silence, stony, still and distant. 


Hope ran free once and howled in sublime simplicity 
Gazing upward in wonder at the silver light at night.


At She,


Beautiful, cold; bathing in her gold blood,
In summons to the echo of the call
Of the wolf-bayed, white-veiled,


Moon.