Slump
Slump
(Shakesperean sonnet in Iambic Pentameter)
Sobs, muted sobs, night's harvest of remorse,
spread from the core and dribble through the eyes,
in search of solace on this woeful course,
of bygone suns that shall no longer rise.
Cries, muffled cries, those nightmares of despair,
rise from the pits to choke a gloomy soul,
and waken corpses from commitments’ lair,
where pledges gather dust in a black hole.
Yet this numb, downcast, and lethargic mood,
returns with vengeance early every morn,
like pleasant warmth of summer lassitude,
no matter the night’s ridicule and scorn.
Regret piles up, like mail we never read,
To foster apathy and sorrow breed
Placed 4th
10.15.2022
Submitted to "A Brian Strand Premiere Contest"
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