Lucifer was the name of my aunt’s cat;
though this sonnet pairs the essay Easter
wherein Easter and rising were just that.
Now i sit pink-eye-patched; tea-bagged by fear
I dared exclaimed the pain in my hard heart;
and days later it is only more so
as if by sharing, it might become art -
an art best seen by those who’ve been brought low.
Have we all been brought to this place to see
that which can only be viewed from great depth?
If so, must we climb to such heights to be free?
or is life hell, so we may rise to death?
I may very well have fallen by choice
so that on my way out, i might rejoice.?
No comments:
Post a Comment