Inglorious
this judgment night
notorious
for waning blight,
and something more cast from
the furthest reaches to
grasp at villainous numb;
pains akin to tattoo
moments that are permanent inked,
entwined within the skin and so
are left to rot and age unblinked
from the precious scraps to forgo.
And nothing but the knowledge left to think
while death commands the folly left in drink.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Poem-A-Day: Day 590
Sonnet #78 (Growing Pains)
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Drop a line, a quip, a snippet, your pants, or an anecdote...just don't drop the soap.