Distrail

It was, of course,

folly to think that we

could touch the clouds,

but we were young

and required hope

to dare,

or, if not that exactly,

required at least the absence of

Futility and its

trailing servant,

Despair.

Then

the inevitable

occurred

(as it must,

as it always has),

and the perfect sky was

ruptured, blurred.

(No deus ex machina
will ever finally prevail:
Reality always leaves a
dissipation trail in

the blameless
clouds.

The agent of each travesty

needs no other name,

the loss the same,

whatever bears the shrouds.)

Years later we ceased

to seek the skies, though

now, grateful to have

survived, we bless sunset, sunrise,

at peace with rupture gone unmended.

Finding beauty

where no beauty was

intended.