There are prayers
For which
Prayer
Is no good.
There are hopes
Made out
Of hopelessness,
& the expression
Of them
Is a desolation.
There are ways
The heart longs
For desire while
Closing down love,
& the torments
Stretch long
& far forever.
There are obsessions
Whose brand on the soul
Expresses nothing
But the life not lived.
There are dyings
That are not Death,
& the hell
Of knowing this
Is Hell.
There are loves
Only sayable
Over months
& years
Of holding on.
Ask me tomorrow,
Little one.
[Richard Bausch {1945- } 'There are Prayers' from These Extremes]
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