Literature Is For Those Left

A Poem by Douglas Caraballo

Painting by Gustave Doré

Literature is for those left;
For death and reflection on its nature,
For life and the wondering of why.
And that is all mankind can do,
wrestle and wonder.
Like Jacob,
Rolling beneath the elms of Jabbok,
So man wrestles with his fate
Left limping, and altered…
What new names shall be gifted,
when that field is conquered,
and the dust settles from our
disfigured victory?
We who eat up the dawn,
and drive our dreams deeper
into this sea of hope and moonlight.