Sonnet II: His Gift

Near every effort I express is less
Than what is necessary to survive;
Yet, I remain ironically alive
Although my work is not enough to bless

My life. But why then shall I acquiesce
To strife when all around me is the live,
Unending truth that I can still revive
My worthless Plod. To see within this press,

My worthless God has gifted me the tool
Of nothing; still, the only gift He has
To give. And I, His ever steadfast fool,
Must live within these scenes! I think that as
I die inside, these means I come to see:
That one thing God Himself has given me.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence: click here to read it all:

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Sonnet I: Ode

I felt but did not see nor hear the one
And only one who fell to the abyss:
No single scream of fear nor rage in this
Abandoned call–nor hate from whence begun

This long abandoned fall of he who won.
But still the chill of recklessness persists
In all–the tremor of its wrath resists,
Appalling me, a will to be undone.

Yet almost as I fell myself–that with
Abandon… frozen… squalls me to the north–
The shaken state to which I have withdrawn.

What story shall they write, what ode, what myth
Shall celebrate such infamy thenceforth
When long and cold ago I will have gone?

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

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