On Hope

I am descending into the midpoint of my existence,
Fading into a being who knows only loss,
Running with the great apostle to go the distance,
And dying with St. John of the Cross,

The night is dark, but darkness has not swallowed me whole,
Lions encircle me, but have yet to chew my flesh,
Upon my knees, I know not of Him I do not know,
I pray for hope, and to be revitalized a fresh, deep inside my soul

The darkest night of the soul is upon me,
And spiritual sloth has no place inside this home,
The stars guide me to all which I can see,
But I am like the great apostle heading to Rome,

Far too long I have caressed the fallen sparrow's head,
I have been defiant against providence far too long,
Watering a fading lily, won't bring it from the dead,
Foolishly, I jump inside every grave singing my song,

The path turns right and slowly ascends,
An ant crawls and a single flower blooms,
I have reached the turning point; thy path bends,
And hope looms inside my heart, the empty room,

Even the Christ had experienced some sort of loss,
Even King David descended to a place we know not,
To crush the serpent's head meant to be nailed to the cross,
We watched in disbelief; but we soon forgot,
That even Christ had experienced some sort of loss,

Imagine if you will, the moment the light crept into the grave,
When the stone rolled away, did light overwhelm the cave?
Or did it peek into the darkest hole ever to be seen?
Or was it sneaky, like a sunrise being painted on the scene?

If You Keep Adding Stones, Soon the Water Will be Lost in the Well

Thy traditions of courtly love has flowed swiftly down,
From waxing to waning moon. The books we hold unlock
Thy world’s greatest mysteries that the heart has bound,
And What if Romeo never drank for whom he charmed,
And Juliet had not died in her lovers’ arms,
Upon their tombstone would read the greatest lovers for a day,
And time has not forgotten Shakespeare for another blissful May,

And what if the greatest lovers became jealous,
Of the non-existent tale written just about us,
Of the love potion that Tristan and Isolde partook,
We may drink of the same fiery passion that shook,
The very breadth and soul of them alike,
So that the fire that pierced the eyes of Dante,
Pierce our very heart like an arrow hitting the strike.

And What if Paris would have sacrificed Helen,
So lives would not be sacrificed upon the fields of Ilium,
Would Greek Mythology then remain hollow?
Would there be no more stories to follow?
What if Odysseus had no Penelope waiting at home?
And every twist and turn he battled,
Led him closer to Ithika, but further from Rome?

And What if Florentino had no Fermina to wait on?
Would he still drink of cholera when she is gone?
Would love even be there if Noah had no Allie,
And 365 letters were not penned by his own hand,
So that the white picket fence lay upon dusty land,
As dust settles over larger rocks comprised of sand.

And what if there was love as strong as this,
So that Venus mourns for love to never be amiss,
That even Mars and Jupiter bow down to worship
The bow of Cupid which never misses its mark;
As it strikes the path of the ascending lark.