Monday, April 18, 2011

Day 41, Sonnet 41

To Lethe wharf do take me, lovèd one,
And drown me in that foggy-water depth.
You’ll know, my love, when your sweet deed is done
For lack of bubbles means a lack of breath.
I’ve supped and supped from old Mnemosyne
And ne’er can dry her dampness from my brain;
So thus I hear brave Lethe calling me
To plunge into forgetfulness again.
So dip me into the ambrosian blue
And fear not when the blankness taints my face
For ‘tis an anesthetic that seeps through
To numb the bruisèd mind with utmost grace.
So though you to a death do bear me forth
You bring me life again at Lethe’s wharf.


[This is a sonnet I wrote nearly three years ago, but it aptly summarizes the soul-ache that plagues my soul at times, and I could not have re-written it any better.]

No comments:

Post a Comment