My fourth try (quite belated) at a sonnet. I’ve finally given it a title, after more than a month of fiddling with it.

Any given morning

A honk a ring a buzz a beep

A stress demands response direct

But naught, no acts, no thought, asleep.

A wall of pain arose unchecked.

A pain of knives so fine so keen

The pain of life not lived, sedate

To wake each day again to preen

A looking glass so full of hate.

The wise man comes too late to aid

No help, he bides his patient time.

To see him fight to keep himself

From wasting every wretched climb.

There is no way to sit in peace

No path forward. Into the east.