The Hand Rising From The Grave! Poem by Eric Cockrell

are we then love's refugees?
cursed, without a land...
are we the only ones still bleeding,
infidels by choice!
whose house and whose light,
whose name on the box?
will the soldiers then come,
and bury what we've been?
when feeling departs,
another intimacy begins...
too often lost in the waves,
and insects that sing of night.
have we lived our life,
to be flashlights and rubber boots?
doth not this ache strip silence,
to that which is raw and beneath?
and nothing i say,
nothing that i choose to leave behind...
can touch the edge of this blade,
can name the hand rising from the grave!