HOPE

He drifts into the knowledge
that what he knows
will never subsume
the unknown.

And so he must learn
to embrace the unknown like
a familiar friend he had lost contact with
for many, many years.

They re-connect,
he and this wine dark future,
and no love feels lost.

(Must. Should. Will.)

The unknown becomes familiar,
to survive the next second.
Next hour.
Next day, week, month and year.

No doubt he will flow with the clock,
yet he reaches out to grasp the reeds
but the current carrying him fast
past
only aids
their razor-sharp edges
to draw deep cuts
into his palms,
rewriting history.

He yearns to know:

Why do you
make me believe
that you are
my saviour
when often
I feel you
delight to
crucify me?