The Sleeper’s Sonnet

A Year of Sonnets — 024/365

Photo by Benjaminrobyn Jespersen on Unsplash

You wake from solid stone to some dark day
still petrified, but breathing on your own —
whatever worth that is — the air is fey
and shadows, though diminished, gnash and groan.

Now, you would sleep again, given the choice,
unbind your bones and lose another age,
indulge that instinct, heed that gravel voice
so weary beyond measure of the rage
and grief that settles, commonplace, like rain,
ensnaring hopeful hearts with iron clouds.
As you would do away with all that pain,
so must I stay, rekindling the crowds.

Some grace will come, salvation in the night;
the world be healed and everything set right.

Follow along on the adventure.