A Bitter Calling



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

intoxicating motions

worthless now in the blackening grey.


What bitter calling

to go…go suffer into truth.


© Sam R Geraghty



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