The Only Prayer

A Year of Sonnets — 057/365

Photo by Pablo Rebolledo on Unsplash

You sit a spell and raise your hands
beseeching gods from foreign lands
to take a chance, to love your flaws,
to take you in their outstretched claws,
to soothe your wounds, to bring you peace,
the mercy of deserved release,
to suture up your mortal soul,
to make this wounded creature whole,
to shower you with love and praise,
to hold you ’til the end of days,
and once they’re gone to swoop on in,
to take you back where life begins,
to swear their love, perfect and full,
against an earth grown tired, cruel.