The Veil

A modified terzanelle, a 3 am poem.

The blackness darkened, still from it light bled:
A velvet grave of morass and mire.
None could see where the path less traveled led.

They kept holding out, those wanting fire:
Unfortunate souls buried deep in ink,
Indistinct fathers with no child to sire.

But fire came not! They felt the night slink
Like a widow without hours, alone,
Soft and soundless, with eyes that did not blink;

They felt this and more. Nothing, nothing shone.
And the wind! Oh the wind! Nine circles’ gale
All bulging with void. Pitch and tar, this zone,

Noir like nothing, leaving them so frail:
The fire-hopers with only the black,
Shades unable to voice even a wail.

Less than zeta, of iota a lack,
The fire-hopers with only the black.
And it darkened still, 'til its blackness bled.
None could see where the path less traveled led.

4 Nov. 2006