The Urban Elf

on to whom does the wreckage fall
unto whom does the calling come
half blind and divorced of grace
twitching damaged and ashen faced
bidden to clamor over our own debris
the wake of comfortable ruins
left by our own self-reckoning
we must rise and heed the word
the cry too often gone unheard
of another just alike and more alone
having lost so much
and having yet so little to show
for the effort and pain
needing most importantly to know
what there is that can be gained
from the savaged smoldering plain
that was a flawed but annointed Eden
just a conversation or two ago
there is no answer to be given
no two minds nor hearts alike
but each field is tilled in turn
in its destiny a blaze
an anachronistic pyre
of flower and fruition
those who have survived
owe the harvest of tuition to
the others as they come
just as crippled broken battered
maybe healing is a gift exchanged
that each patient becomes a physician
self-forgiveness only coming to one
through the journey of the mission
that it be fostered in someone else
the future only to become tangible
when placed into new trembling hands
with assurances that all is possible