I’ll be experimenting with a poem, sharing drafts here each week. Here’s the first draft (yet untitled), written in sonnet form:
A call a ring a buzz a beep
A stress demands response
There is none there, as if asleep.
A wall of pain ensconced.
Not pain of knives so sharp
But pain of life so great
To wake each morn to carp
And look a glass of hate.
The wise man comes too late to help
And bides his patient time.
To see him fight to keep himself
From wasting every climb.
There is no way to sit sublime.