A Poet's Grief (Clint's Grief) Poem by Barry Middleton

Why must poets bleed
for the empty ache
of lost love, of lost youth,
the wickedness of death,
the dying pain of time,
and the agony of memories.
My tears are for the weight
of all unending grief,
for the silent inner war,
and for all brutality
of nations and of men.
I weep for the shame,
the endurance of hate,
the frailty of caring.
It is a ripping knife
that tears a heart,
and kills the soul
with no savior to redeem.
Planets whirl, moonbeams fall,
and evil creeps like a maniac
who stalks with hatred.
There is no armor,
the monster comes,
hooded and red eyed
in the terrible night.
Speechless is my pain,
no tongue to speak the loss,
my love, my hope, my faith,
my peace, my soul, my life.