After the Road

—The Virtues I Could Not Bear— He bore those virtues I had schooled my heart To flout—the mercy tardive as a bell That tolls when judgement hath already writ Its iron sentence; and the fortitude That, having neither warrant nor reprieve, Still stood, as though endurance were decree. His papers sodden, rain-black at the cuffs, He watched the departing omnibus grow small; Defeat had docketed him among the lost, Yet some unlicensed morning stirred in him— A pertinacious ember without name, Which would not let the ruin have the last word. A rumour traversed the town ere Truth Had found her raiment, fastened up her throat; By vesper it had gathered testimonial, By night, a hundred tongues had canonised Its falsehood. Truth came mud-foot, unadorned, And found the lie enthroned where fact should sit. I watched him exhaust the stratagems— The specious plea, the venial compromise, The facile alibi by which we varnish Our abdications into innocence; Till every avenue of self-release Lay shuttered—and he chose the steeper way. I had imagined triumph a resplendent Heraldry, some aureate certification Affixed to what the world elects as worthy; His triumph was the wreckage underneath: Each failure divested him of borrowed names, Each rising made the ruin less his own. Then, inexplicably, the firmament Descended—not as vision, but as fact: The stars lay rooting underneath our feet, And darkness flowered upward through the stone. I understood no doctrine, only this— The road was not discovered. It was made. Let Hell prolong its jurisdiction; let The false arrive before the true, and let Our virtues wound the very hands that bear them. We are not promised passage, nor reprieve; Yet where the last conceivable way is closed, the footfall itself becomes the road.
Copyright © | Year Posted 2026

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