A Bitter Calling
What token sonnets grace a bard?
He who knows too well the pain
of mirrors, mirrors into the deep,
places of permanent rest.
He could rinse his face
wash the philosophy away
bellow greater hymns
into the heart of nothing,
a void before murderous wind
his demeanour is no more a face,
no smile remarking lines of dissent.
As his echo disappears, the rhythm
dies inside him,
as words once woken once
upon a time, he grasps
the sullen temperance of defeat…
…a glorious hush comes over him
like a once illuminating cloud
worthless now in the blackening grey.
What bitter calling
to go…go suffer into truth.
© Sam R Geraghty