Robert Lindley Poet Sonnet

Weaving Our Robes From An Old, Broken Loom

Weaving Our Robes From An Old, Broken Loom

In this cold world, naked and helpless born
With coming sorrow expressed in first cries,
Soon fed false dreams and other useful lies,
Ever seeking more to oneself adorn.

In falling flight as a broken wing hawk,
Our sad dead bodies, not yet drawn in chalk
Are we mere pawns in this ancient world's game
Greedy hearts, seek others to chide and blame.

If manna from high Heaven fails to fall
Blind spirits joined together, cry and moan
Rejecting any true light ever shone
Living in darkness, its alluring call.

Not seeing our fated approaching doom
Weaving our robes from an old, broken loom.

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Connie Marcum Wong July 23, 2017 at 8:08 PM Robert, your poem expresses so well that low that all of us feel from time to time in our lives. Wonderfully written within a depth of melancholy. : )

M. L. Kiser July 23, 2017 at 4:33 PM A well done sonnet; fantastic imagery.

Darren White July 23, 2017 at 9:38 AM Robert my friend. I love the image, the metaphor of weaving from an old broken loom. It says it all really. Beautiful (enclosed rhyme) shakespearean sonnet. It has a sad undertone, but is so well written.