Fear makes us not motionless,
for we tremble like frightened rabbits,
yet we progress not.
Placate, placate though light is plying
stillness,
quaking as love lies dying.
I'm a man,
nothing more,
nothing less.
I know great fear,
yet I would face it down
if only were I allowed to do so.
Rage.
Dying are the embers;
will they at least flare up
ere death's chill claims them once more?..
Hecate, Hecate -
the light is dead...
extinguished to placate Hel's fiery head
with fountains of tears.
I wrote this some time ago, questioning a dying relationship;
coming to a conclusion about it in the end.
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