Peter Lilly: Poems

What morbid confusion! The sorrow of life's ambition: executed. The hopelessness of purpose: crucified... with even the resolve of a grave: taken away. Nothing to do now, but kick stones on dusty paths and wander... How can you not know the tragedy of innocent death, how are you not grieving for this diseased world has killed truth, and we are but dismembered limbs. ... No! You are staring at hope through hopeless eyes, WHEN WILL YOU SEE? He HAD to choose to endure and not be spared the bitterness of every dying breath, he HAD to choose the un-walkable route paving it with his blood, illuminating it with his enduring life. He alone provides a hope that is more final than death. ... And with this fire within us evaporating the vast waters of bitter loss There is nothing to do but tell others, rejoice with our brothers and follow the path that he laid, for all else is meaningless, and a chasing after the wind. What candescent joy! In th...

There is something in this nothing, this sorrowful gasp, this fast of disbelief. For the wave of excitement never expects the desert or death. Loss amnesia extracted memories of hope, hopeless insomnia gouged through rest with nihilist emptiness, yet purpose is enduring and truth is still breathing, despite every miss-belief and projections of human limitations. The truth of the pain is this; there is more than a consolation in this death. There were whispers of victory in the wind; but the noise of mourning drowned out its tender premonitions. There is something in this nothing, something more than consolation in this loss, this sorrowful gasp. How is one supposed to breath in this space between death and life? this Sheol on earth? this furrowed brow of question-mark day between redemption and vindication? How is one supposed to breath, eat or sleep in this vacuous void? What emptiness there was without expect...