Can anybody tell me
where the fountainhead
of sadness lies, and why
it flows as undertow to joy?
It is as if some revelation
in the hour before dawn
rides heavy on my waking
spirit, will not dissipate.
Is it because the God of Love
is daily crucified, in a world
where blood and agony
are common currency?
Is it that I glimpsed Love
blinded, stumbling on stones,
feet a bleeding palimpsest
of thorns and wounds?
Or is it also for the self
the spirit writhes and groans -
afraid to bear love's penalty,
afraid to be alone?