untitled

on beleaguered belief

I am mesmerized by life
And the death
Of the light in the western sky
And the star hunter’s low path 
Bow-ready for the North.

I only ever wanted to see horizons.
Maybe that was a young man’s game.
The wick burns bright at the start,
Wax-dipped and fresh.
But, oh, how spindle-shanked it looks
When the flame flares for life at the end.

Does not the light of youth
Falsely tempt us
To stand and never flinch
To dispel darkness with our spark?

Revival is for the young,
Or so they say,
And the old know better
Or do they?
How convenient belief sounds
When dropped as spiritual cliche