In the Wee Hours

What succeeds the pain when my soul has suffered all it can? Why does truth lure like a fire on a far distant shore? When wisdom cleanses what ignorance soils, why, in the sweet, sad hours of mourning, do healing tears stain? Why is my spirit chained for the sins of my soul? Why is the price of love more than my heart can ever pay? When whispers become screams and I burn, who will come and pour themselves on me? Why does innocence die and guilt live on, lingering? What can I redeem from so much so cheaply sold? When the way is fraught with bridges so badly broken, how do I cross softly from such a fallen world? Why do youthful dreams still haunt the halls of my slumber? What is my life’s worth but a pocketful of stones? When scions are undone and I alone remain, who will weep for me and who will know my name?