Outnumbered

I am now as far from love as I am from myself

and I do not know if the darkening of the sky

and the eventual blossoming of daffodils

will restore any semblance of hope for a life

unburdened by the weight of disappointment

And a loneliness that persists like winter.

For in winter we cannot know for sure

the replenished hoisting of the sun

despite the objective certainty of its annual flux.

It feels like it will be this way forever.

Like we will always be under a gloomy blanket

of grey cumulus.  What wind will blow

like the resuscitated breath of a fallen hero?

Who can we call hero now that we realise

one side’s victory is but defeat in the mirror?

The battle rages still, but as ranks dwindle

in hope and number, we march on

until night at last draws us under…