Silva obscura

When we blink before the truth, it still abides 

the junction of the fearful and the fair

where truth obliges, and where justice glides 

across the fields of stubbornness and care,

to that most humble home of pride and right

hidden from heartbreak by clean duty and fresh air.

We jump away from horror, and from flight,

and turn our eyes towards the sweeter view,

of wild blue blossoms under moonlit night.

We know the answer cannot be so new

as to require us to bend our speech and song

into a tool for meting out the true,

and signaling the lines of right and wrong.

When we arise we have to be as strong 

as angry bullock in the greener field.

We cannot hope to hide our shame for long,

our choice is force, and energy unsealed,

beyond the spearhedge of new ruddy day,

that dipped and danced with hearts securely steeled

against the looming darkness of our play.

The horrid evil. swallowing plain night,

and leaving awful serpents set to slay

the sparkling remnants of unconquered might 

that we are tempted to make into fire, not for the favor of a single light 

but for the careful silence we require 

when turning silent gases into flame,

incinerating what we most desire 

into a means of brightening each name.

The monster that abides here out of pride

is not our glory, nor our hill of shame,

but one more mark that we desire to hide

from both the dormouse and the soldiers’ rage.

It’s not an object to be kept inside,

polished as any statement on the stage.

It’s our assertion that we can’t abide

the drama and the farce of our weak age.

So we wait for the tumult to subside,

and for our target to recede so far

that it appears to flutter and to glide

across the places our darkness may not mar.

Towards the meadow, and the sterling warmth,

and every moment that we may not bar

of the first glimmer of the evening star.