Do I not have this same love still within?

This sweet pain of the heart—fledgling bird that once I
fought for, bled for, as it flew into the outer world—
is dead, a tragedy, for its
enduring memory and my persistent inaction make me
a fraud, a nothing, no one.

How do I explain away the torturous inconsistency?
That once I held her and I saw the heavens mirrored in two eyes—
That once I glimpsed the meaning of my life, and strove for it—
That once I knew with certainty what drove me out of bed each day, what I was chasing down in people;
and knew that I could draw it out, if only I would try.
If only I had kept so steadfast and so pure,
and went about it with my heart the sacrificial lamb,
then I could draw it out, then I could try.

And now it’s been a year since I so glimpsed that holy ghost,
pure-hearted inspiration which had driven me—
The summer past I saw its dissolution start,
The months before the last to show the holy part.

And I shall suffer noble heart again, or so it seems,
if ever more the parts of life worth all I should regain.
Perhaps that’s it—the plan—
the weakling timid course of action I resign to take.
A plan as bad as any, I should think;
a plan is merely recourse to the known, when things are bleak.

In times of blindness, when the clouds obscure the sun,
it might be best to sit in darkness, talk to none.
And when the beams peek out behind the vapors of the cloud,
then warmed you’ll be, and moving towards the warmth,
but til then, maybe find contentment in the shroud.