I was brought here by pain and fatigue that are doing nothing but increasing. Having to put words and thoughts into the rhyme and meter of a Shakespearean sonnet concentrates and focuses my mind; the discipline makes the meaning behind what I'm trying to write come more learly for me, and, I hope for you.
I was brought to writing verse
by the hard overseer of pain
whose whip’s hard lash and shouted curse
bites deep, and I cannot feign
the mellow mien of modern man,
it’s turned me savage, hard;
my life’s old flowing graceful span
is left bent, broken, charred.
Yet in the wrack in which I kneel
a rhyme floats up, in grace;
it doesn’t matter how I feel,
but that I seek God’s face.
If I can transcend this deadly hurt
a flower may grow in that bloody dirt.
Music from Manafest, with Every Time You Run.
Thanks to Carol Ashby, Blessed Are The Pure Of Heart is back on Kindle, and will be available in paperback soon.
Friends are everything. I couldn't have done it.