Thoughts – a sonnet

Why is it that the thoughts do jostle sadly close,

and ride upon the feelings of the day and night,

where sorrow holds the reins of raddled reason;

consciousness is torn through fear’s dark blight?

I cannot answer questions which do form and fold,

and tuck the sheets of hope beneath the bed,

which made itself as optimism watched beside;

and yet the answers hold the knife; I’m bled.

If there were any way to straighten passion’s mind,

and call to order all that strangles faith,

so would be restored, the plan and purpose bright;

forgiveness then could take the place of hate,

and neaten corners, edges, tangled ends –

plump high the pillows where love rests her head.

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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