“Love,” the dead man sings

a poem for hard times

In the middle of the night__grief arrives,

His bloody palm__on the hilt of a knife

and in the quiet hours__I am estranged

from the ones I love;__by His blade I’m changed.

Who I am is a mystery__that I cannot solve

(since I’ve never been__who I thought I was)

but the promise I’ve__always stood behind,

is to keep on going__even when I’m blind.

Well that’s a promise that__I may have to keep,

to go alone,__with eyes that cannot weep;

to fade away__in her memory,

to stumble on__alone but free.

There is nothing harder

than to be condemned

for a love that’s weaker

than it should have been. —

Well Lord, I have tried to harden__this wood to steel,

but the heartwood’s as rotten__as Our ideals.

Well it’ easy second-guessing__to myself,

easy to do nothing__put your hopes on the shelf,

but look where it’s going__and I’m sad to say

that if you don’t try,__you’ll regret it some day.

I made another promise__in my youth,

that I’d keep on going__that I’d fight for truth,

so today I’ll stand__and take charge of my doom,

I don’t want to fade__into the tomb —

I don’t want to fade,__so I’ll admit my wrongs,

they tell me that’s__what really makes you strong;

I’ll admit my wrongs__and live another day,

though my love lies hollow__just a room away.