Who doesn’t look back and think:
Why did I…? Why didn’t I…?
Now that you’re gone I ponder
and whether I should have. Or could have.
Maybe it was survival, maybe it was spite,
or confusion, or craving for simple love and peace
that made me swing the axe and cleave the cord.
I felt it round my neck always
and always struggled to breathe,
clawing, and running,
but though I swung the axe, the cord trailed and clung,
like a snake
slithered from its basket;
like a rootless vine,
brittle, unbending, and never breaking;
like a tow rope,
always dragging a suffocating weight.
I swung the axe but got no peace.
Now that you’re gone,
I wonder
if peace will have me now.

The Ash Drifts Away

The fire burns down

and the ash drifts away

as the kindling rage and loathing shrivel,


No banked embers remain,

yet growing warmth glows within the pulsating kiln,

like fiery sunset softened to lovely dusk.

Injustice fueled the inferno,

but the fire burns down

and the ash drifts away.

What’s lost will be mourned

and unforgotten,

and drift away

like the ash.