Tuesday, July 1, 2014

To the author's wife, on his depression. An apology, of sorts. A sonnet.

The pre-dawn hours are black and smudged as coal,
And, like the wailing of a forpined ghost,
You whistle as you snore.  I can't recall
A time before this grief harrowed my bones.
Skipping from sill to sky, from Earth to nest,
A robin sings the coming of the day:
Mad gibbering from a furnace, deep as night,
That lights the sky with its infernal blaze.
Although for you, my treasure, so serene,
I wish I had it in me to be well,
There's something in this complicated brain
That's bent towards the lonely roads of death.
But when the world is new, and all the sons of God revealed,
I'll drift in seas of light, my fractured personhood now healed.

Copyright by Ike Wassom, 2014.  All rights reserved.

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