Lighteaters

A Year of Sonnets — 061/365

Photo by Aziz Acharki on Unsplash

A story hides beneath your heavy skin
and hope, a bolus, races through your blood
their roots are mighty, anchored deep within.
Your spirit is a mess of fertile mud,
a mess, perhaps, but teeming full of life,
ingredients that seek a chink of light
to power through disease, the world of strife
without the arms to fight an honest fight
when all is lost: the scars of death, decay,
may wear you down to rust and tired stone.
Though you despise the weight of weary days,
your star’s endures, though quiet and alone.

So water now your bones: though you may weep,
tomorrow holds a dream. Tread now to sleep.