(Pssst…In case you missed the first part, you can start from HERE.)
By Robert L. Jones III (check it out at Pneumythology)
IV. The Grip Of Grief
Behold, the human spirit rises up from unseen wells.
The ghost inhabits its machine in ways that no one tells.
Considering such questions as philosophy might ask,
Let readers weigh priorities and take themselves to task.
Does grief arise from selfishness or sympathetic care,
Or could it be a bit of both for those of us who dare
To suffer disappointments in the light of higher ways
And hold to hidden principles that common life betrays?
The insincere may speculate, but wiser men have known
By heating in the crucible are human values shown.
Do any know how they would act or speak when put to test?
Upon what final consequence will actions come to rest?
As into deep obscurity the Kraken left its wake,
The boy upon the cliff still watched. His knees began to shake.
His face was pale. His trembling hands clenched tightly into fists,
Responding to the rage and pain that suffering enlists.
He cried out incoherently, and many tears were shed.
He fell to earth and beat the rocks until his knuckles bled.
Though scarcely would he recollect just how his flight began,
It seems he did what he could do. Directionless, he ran
Along the coast and shouted curses muffled by the wind
From time to time, he looked about in hopes the sea might send
Her back to him, that woman whom his heart was set upon,
But sunset came with no relief. Then likewise came the dawn.
Upon awaking stiffly from that long and fitful night,
He raised his eyes to heaven, and he vowed to put things right.
With conscience and with memory the maiden’s cry had play.
In heart this stricken lad became a man at sea that day.
He charged among the breakers then, undisciplined and rash,
And, seized by pangs of hunger, looked for shellfish he could smash.
In vain he begged the ocean to make right what had been wronged.
By stubborn pride and strength of will, his journey was prolonged.
He slept above the rising tides and fed on what he could,
Then, through the nights, to warm himself, made fires from drifted wood.
He roamed one day, suspecting not that well beyond a bend
Stood something that would bring his lonely vigil to an end.
Beyond this promontory, he, by fate or providence
(No honest man could then have said for want of evidence),
Would cease his restless wanderings and stop to stare instead,
His scattered thoughts arrested by the sight he saw ahead.