Scarce Is Our Solace

Scarce Is Our Solace

 

The well last hour stood with ample Solace,

awaiting as ever the coming Crisis  – whether

Pain or

Confusion or

Dread or such  –  a

Calamity sure to

Cry out for Succor, for the Solace one ladles

deep to Soothe the soul’s Fiery Flare;

 

yet of late a dearth of Care renders

the landscape Dark, and a drought of

Compassion places man on

courses parallel, unable – unwilling – to

meet for even the briefest Touch of

Humanity.

 

The well now echoes dry and hollow, and any

promised Kindness is soon poised hollow, adrift in a ring of

Acrid smoke,

drifting Fetid in fast-whirling mockery

of those who dared again seek

even the slightest Consolation, across   

earth and to the heavens,

east to west

 

 

Speak now, my friend...