measure for measure
wings of wax and pressed string
like metaphors, conceal the meaning
of a certain madness, a certain longing
that is just as rational,
just as certain to lead to disaster
as trusting them to fly
and here am i, once again
on the edge of a great precipice
considering a leap–not of faith,
but of foolishness, abandon
with the wildness and sorrow
that thoughts of you always bring
if i died, would you think to sing
some song of sad, sorrowful lament
or would i sink slowly into the salty tears
of my fascination with the sea?
flights of fancy and unsolid fascinations
lie at the core of my being;
and while the sun promises the coming spring,
it melts, too, these imaginary wings
proving me to be
so much less
with some terror i often wonder
if i am those waxen wings,
destined, when the wax melts before the fire,
to be nothing else
what horrors you always unleash in my mind!
desires that rage, sorrows that blind,
and bind me into days and days of useless,
fathomless despair and blacker rage;
the green-eyed wolf is again restless in his cage
and would devour all that i have come to treasure–
these black days bring a hollow cry
and only at their end do i remember Our Lord’s measure:
Whoever wants to come after me, let him deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.
Indeed, whoever wants to save his life will lose it; and whoever will lose his life for my sake for the sake of the Gospel will save it.
What does it profit if a man, to gain the whole world, forfeits his life?