Resolution

With sodden feet,
I trudged that well-worn path:
A circle, laid by insubstantial hope
For comfort beckoning just beyond my grasp.
In that cruel place
Where love is always wrong,
And caring bitter,
The cycle continued, and still I hoped.


No more.


I turn away, toward reluctant freedom,
Treading a new, straight, heavier path
With the grimness of a known end,
And finally, with my own spade,
Burying my undead heart ...
Love's light lost,
And sunlight pouring down in mockery
On my face of stone.


-Skye Nightingale, 2002