On a Grey Thread/The Poet
The Poet
We are given pain to balance every joy,We tragic-eyed divinities in dust.Many the hearts life bleeds with little wounds,The souls bewildered between God and lust.
We know the way of pity and pity's pain;We know the unlit, endless street called Doubt;And few but walk a black way at the end,The piteous, hope-lit candles dead, burned out.
Yet these are mortal wounds of mortal thorns:What of the few who suffer deadlier scars?They are worse wounded than any in the worldWho bruise their lifted heads against the stars.