Poem-A-Day: Day 208

Sonnet #48 (Punching Bag)

Where, and what happened to the smelling salts?
I’m here, fumbling around the blood-soaked rags,
trying to pick the pieces of  my faults
off the ground, and place them into bags
that have been meticulously labeled
with two and twenty more than what I know
has been left for naught, but less disabled
than I, that has contracted final blow;
scribed with the pen that writes in bloodied ink
a fist clenched fingers daring what’s not said,
and hearing nothing more before the blink
that missed the moments gone before my dread.
  And crippled, wrought with nothing more but pain,
  I lay, a wreck, diminished in my brain.