There are days when despair
seems our only recourse.
Portentous gatherings trapped
by their own sophistry,
roving from enclave to safe house
fugitive from all
that speaks our commonality–
our same blood, our one flesh.
Our mutual aspirations are greeted
with haughty, pococurante stares
before they set the bomb, or crash
the plane or toss
the vial of toxin in the train.
There are days–despairing days
and mournful nights–when hope
is but the flame
that casts dark shadows on
the wall from every demon
grimly dancing in the dying light.
This poem was the result of a writing exercise for my writing group. We were given five words to use in our writing. Those five words, the anniversary of 9-11, and a certain passage in Plato were the inspiration.