The Middle Way

A Year of Sonnets — 044/365

Photo by Cristian Palmer on Unsplash

Perhaps your grief will carry on
persist through years to ring your bones;
a testament, when you are gone
to every monster that you own —
for though they bound your arms and chest
and made you shudder, weep, and groan
and stole away your vital best,
you’ll have your Pyrrhic victory,
that final win where you divest
your mortal skin for all to see
and stand triumphant in the light
ascending. Love, you did not flee
ashamed from this demanding fight:
You lived. You died. You did alright.