A Casual Conversation

A Year of Sonnets — 012/365

Photo by Mads Schmidt Rasmussen on Unsplash

There is no death: the psychopomp insists
that we are merely light bent into shape,
decaying, some, while others may persist
for decades longer — but we all escape
our bonds sometime, returning to the whole
wherein we heal the flaws matter creates.
Her smile wan: you may call this a soul
perhaps — or not — no metaphor restates
the Truth in perfect lines — not even this
is wholly right — for Truth is not a pill
to swallow down: we wrestle and we miss
the point of everything. The struggle will
diminish you, perhaps, and steal your light,
but nothing truly dies. Keep on the fight.