End of Grace (for Leonard Cohen)

End Of Grace                (for Leonard Cohen)

You told me you were leaving,
And I never did believe:
There’s no one left so decent
As to give me time to grieve,
But there’s nowhere left to whisper
On the hot side of the Gates:
It’s a civil and a proper hour
To make an end of grace.

The deed is in the music
And the relic’s in the word;
I hope you will forgive me
When I find it all absurd
How we fight for your fedora,
Casting lots for your last shoelace—
But it’s only in our nature
To make such an end of grace.

I thought we were above it;
I thought that we could learn,
But we’re counting up their silver
While the crosses burn,
It’s the day, now, of the Crown,
It’s the hour of the upturned face,
It’s one minute to midnight
And the pyrotechnic end of grace.

There is no more detention
In the classroom after school:
There is no violation
When you overrule the rule.
Now they’re teaching all the man-cubs
How to pickpocket second base:
In the rocket’s red glare
You just grab ’em by the end of grace.

It’s standing in the closet.
It’s drinking every night.
It can’t abide the darkness
And it doesn’t know the light.
They stole its sacred pronoun—
Maybe pawned it off someplace—
Now it’s one small step for—
Something like an end of grace.

First they break your leg,
Then they break your crutch:
We’re just simple constructions.
It doesn’t take much.
They krazy glue your heart pills shut
Just to watch your face.
It takes such a little thing
To make an end of grace.

Today they stand united
On a mountaintop of skulls,
The old men for their terror,
And the young men for the lulz,
They adopt a daughter standard
And they’re day-trading future dates,
And with such little things
They sport to make an end of grace.

I dreamed I was a meteor
A thousand miles wide;
I dreamed I hit the lithosphere
And everybody died,
And Pheidippides himself
Was never happier to end a race,
It made for good T.V.
And a strangely fitting end of grace.

I wish I was the darkness.
I wish I never woke.
I wish I could forget
About the thousand times you spoke:
There are heroes in the seaweed.”
There are saints in this phantom space.
So I stand with beating heart
And open arms here at the end of grace.

Luke R. J. Maynard
November 10, 2016


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