a body turns a corner
and the other bodies stay behind
the darkness becomes soft hands
to carry a body down a street
and then all the way home
wherever home may be

of the many ways men part
this common turning seems likeliest
and sad — always sad if considered
too deeply or too closely.

then the body is gone, other bodies are left
to strive for peace of soul and pleasure
— a constant chore founded in the choice
to believe, to always believe, there is something more.

there are those too weak to endure the work
of faith, for those cowardly fools devoted to their cult of truth
there is no belief, there is no choice
there is only inquiry.

What darkness is there around that bend?
What does the darkness hold for men?
Where does the light go? When will it return?

Question after question asked,
until all peace and pleasure  recede
into the everyness of every day — leaving fools
to whither into a forgetfulness that faith may be
and maybe warranted if there is love.