Posthate
The embers of fury
born from the dying fire
of rage
twist in the metal grate
winking.
All the water
hardened to tears -
a well in a desert.
The god-fearing
make much of forgiveness
but that door is bricked up -
at least to us.
The optimists
make sunny uplands
of the blank abyss.
Of future.
But we know
abyss is the whites of the eyes
staring blankly.
Abyss is the gap of expectation.
Abyss is too weary to project.
Indifference the exhaustion of hating
nothingness the illusion of truce
it appears as
tentative
inchoate
incipient
half-civility.
