To life, that old preponderance of pain
Where moments lost are never found again
And memories like cemetery tombs
Lay hidden deep in time's sepulchral ****,
What life is this, forever looking back,
Lamenting colours fading grey to black?
A somber song, a sigh on every breath,
Beseeching *** to grant the prize of death,
But what of poignant pictures, highs and lows,
Of each embittered thorn and fragrant rose
The mind has sensed and stored in snapshot frames?
Nostalgia fades but still the bulb remains,
To life! - and all the chronicles of thought
That haunt so often now that time draws short,
To death, the slippered larcenist of life,
The harvestman with silver scales and scythe
To flail the soul and weigh the deeds of Man,
I fear your touch as only sinners can,
A scar upon my spirit speaks of pride
Where love or something clawed before it died,
Repentance gave no suture to the wound
That love or something like it left, impugned,
The names of faith are lost inside a glass,
I praise for morning, noon and midnight Mass
And so, the stark indifference of days
Becomes a blurred and misanthropic haze,
To death! - I say, please take my tortured soul
For **** can be no worse an empty hole.
Shakespearean Sonnet form.