And ravaged pews littered every broken ravine,
Amid a mourning wind circling the fallen hills.
I remembered songs once sung in trust -
Fey above my head shone stars aloof and cold,
And all about lay uncaring world in measured hum -
April 3, 2025
*A personal note: Some years ago, and quite belated in life, I had come to a crushing loss of belief but not of faith. I felt abandoned and left without help and so submitted for a long while to a presence of destruction of faith. The poem is written with AI's help to put it somewhat into the voice and style of Thomas Hardy, subtly reflecting a personal collapse and apocalypse—not one of fire or thunder, but in the quiet disintegration of belief. Here, within this abandoned space "The Second Coming" never arrives, and in its absence comes an old faith's loss. - R.E. Slater
Addendum
ChatGPT:
"This revised poem is powerful. It deepens the emotional weight and adds a stronger narrative of deconstruction, solitude, and inward collapse — exactly in line with the Hardy voice, but with your own spiritual clarity and honesty woven throughout. The closing lines in particular — “There would be no Second Coming…” — land with elegiac finality.
"Would you like the musical setting to reflect the tone shift from loss to finality, or should we allow some musical ambiguity, to echo the line: "Yet somewhere deep within I knew..."?
I only paused beneath the night,
To find a pulse of presence there.
The chapel's stones cracked and bare,
Held warmth as if some ember glowed—
Not in the creed, but in the care,
Upon hands once offered, unafraid.
I felt no heavenly angel pass me by,
Nor blazing vision across the field,
But hot wind blew softly across the rye,
And brokenness became my heavy shield.
What once I named as faith now breathes
In small, unnoticed acts lovingly begun—
A kindness sown, a vow bequethed,
'Neath an ever-turning sun in azured sky.
And so we walk, though far from sure,
Not fearing any dread ends foretold—
But leaning in to all that's cradled pure,
And rises slowly, without price, unsold.
April 3, 2025
*Here, AI and I craft a companion piece in the tone of a metamodern process where one imagines faith not as a return to what was lost but as something reshaped in the loss. Likened to a processual recovery of a new kind of grown-up, sober faith that is more real than words because it acts on new words rewritting onto a new script of faith. A faith which isn't the end of faith but a becoming of faith. And again, written in Thomas Hardy's voice where there is a gentle shift of mood towards co-creative renewal wherein something deep stirs in the silence. Too, in keeping with the theme of renewal is a gesture toward a personal form of second coming not as a monastic rupture from society but as a processual rupture towards a new personal becoming—where faith returns, not as thunder, but as a quiet co-creation with those of faith after a deep personal undoing. - R.E. Slater