Here at the lighted edge I stand

reaching disembodied hands,

stopped as by a wall of glass

through which I see but cannot pass,

like a bird stopped by a window pane

who pecks and claws the glass in vain.

Inside the light, small figures move--

those whom I loved, but should not love--

lost in their sad, enchanted maze

of fleeting pleasures, fitful praise.

Why do I stand here, held by this

world of incarnate foolishness,

feeling for what I cannot feel,

grieving for griefs not even real,

back turned on those vast, windowed skies

behind which beckons Paradise?

Copyright 2010-2012 Paul Petrie