It is Hard To Except That Our World Is Now Broken
It is hard to except that our world now is broken—
I have heard it whisper so at night,
When the stars, like punctured lanterns,
Bleed their ancient light.
I have walked through streets of ashen hours
Where hope lay trampled, torn, and thin,
And every door I dared to open
Groaned with grief within.
The clocks all tick with hollow lungs,
Time coughing dust instead of breath,
Each moment married to a shadow,
Each cradle pledged to death.
Once, truth wore garments white as snow,
Now draped in rags of doubt and dread;
The lie is crowned with jeweled head,
The honest word lies dead.
Yet still the heart—perverse, undying—
Refuses silence, kneels, and cries,
As if some mercy sleeps beneath
These bruised and blistered skies.
O world, thou fractured mirror-face,
Reflecting sorrow, shard by shard,
To know thee thus, and love thee still,
Is agony—yet hard.
For to except thy broken form
Is not to bless despair’s cruel reign,
But name the wound, stare at the blood,
And yet—I am remains.
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