This exile –
self-imposed, I confess –
wears thin with age.
Too many winters
braving the cold –
heart’s frozen rebellion
against Father’s tireless raving,
Mother’s queenly submission.
So many moons
engaged in a crusade –
armed with but a hollow sword –
the chill of time lapsed,
irretrievable.
Castle lights are waning,
death lingers in the air,
and only now, on this fateful
periphery, do I wonder –
measure the rage against costs –
blame’s righteousness builds
only walls – faults corpses
rotting either side.
Empty-handed, I approach,
cowed by the enormity of task –
bearing no gifts, no legacy –
only a paltry offering
of forgiveness – pray
I am not too late.
(Image provided by Willow Poetry as her weekly challenge: What Do You See? Also linking up with Frank at the dVerse pub, whose theme tonight is blame and forgiveness. Ragtag Community’s prompt is fault.)
One Woman's Quest 