un coeur pétrifié

a year of sonnets — 035/365

Photo by Elvis Bekmanis on Unsplash

It should be Spring. The memory of life
that gilds the land, the lovers in their prime,
is absent here. Its bones are left with blight,
a malady unhealed by hope or time.
Though life insists, decay may overwhelm
and nature, in its cruelty, sustains
a creature long diminished, twisted, fell,
enduring ever on. Why it remains
to age in misery when Thanatos
would carry it away to brighter lands
remains a riddle. Darkness draws it close
but it insists, with gnarled earthy hands
on fighting on, though sorrow is the song
supporting it through years empty and long.