An old one from the archive, posted in response to the “Sod it Sonnet”.
Of all the blights, of all the banes that mar,
the wretchedness, the callous blows that grate,
the stinging left by Fortune’s bleeding scar,
the endless fight with unforgiving Fate;
Of all the bitter things that scrape and rasp,
the acid drip of days that bite, that grab,
the fumes of rotting years that choking, gasp
and leave behind a raw unhealing scab;
Of all the bricks, the sideswipes Life can dole,
the disappointments piled in putrid layers,
that seep through splinters of the weary soul
catching hard-earned numbness unawares;
Of all Life’s fogs, through which I blindly grope,
God spare me from the worst: the stench of Hope.
© Elfstone 19/4/08
Gothicman posted a sonnet on Monday (which he has unfortunately deleted) and we had a ‘chat’ about rhythm (iambic pentameter). That brought this to mind and, as it hasn’t seen the light of day for a number of years, I thought it might be worth reposting it.
© Elfstone 2022